


run away with my love

by brokentombstone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Basically a Sansa goes to Dragonstone with Jon AU, Canon Universe, Diverges from 7x02, F/M, Fix-It, Parentage Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 71,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentombstone/pseuds/brokentombstone
Summary: “Bran,” Jon says, one word and voice barely above a whisper.Sansa takes a sip from her cup and sets it down, “I know.”--Or;When Bran arrives in Winterfell’s Great Hall mere moments after Jon declares that he is going to Dragonstone, it changes everything. Mostly for Jon and Sansa, but for the rest of Westeros as well.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 234
Kudos: 673





	1. crackle

**Author's Note:**

> This is a three part season 7 AU where Sansa travels to Dragonstone with Jon. I'm not rewriting the whole season, only the Dragonstone plot, up to the dragonpit meeting in King's Landing. But that means only following Jon, Sansa, and Daenerys. We won't have any other POVs from say Winterfell or King's Landing. If something doesn't make full sense assume that it is because I didn't consider it for the fic lol. This is completely self indulgent and I had to rewatch mostly all the Dragonstone scenes to write this but didn't want to subject myself to every single other plot point from season 7
> 
> Anyways, I am extremely excited about this fic, I love it and it is proving so much fun to write. So, enjoy!
> 
> (Disclaimer, some dialogue is lifted directly from the show [as this is a rewrite, certain scenes are seen in a new light] but all modifications are my own. Credit goes to the creators)

**run away with my love**

_“These violent delights have violent ends/And in their triumph die, like fire and powder/Which, as they kiss, consume: the sweetest honey”_

William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet,_ Act II Scene VI

 **i.** crackle

“Yours” the words leave Jon’s lips and Sansa is left speechless. 

Her eyes dart around the room but come swiftly back to Jon. He had heeded her advice, it seemed impossible. But surely this wasn’t what she meant. She wanted nothing less than for them to separate, not now. She knew that the men in her family didn’t survive the South. The thought of Jon meeting with Daenerys Targaryen only reminded her of the fate their grandfather and uncle had faced, not so long ago. The memory burns.

But then there is a large sound as the doors to the great hall are opened. Every head turns together to face their unexpected intruders. Sansa questions for a moment how they have been let in. A series of murmurs break out before Sansa can get a glimpse. Then when Sansa sees who is there she can scarcely trust her own eyes.

Bran. Bran is here. In Winterfell. Her mouth drops into a tiny circle, she gapes.

His sudden appearance sends Sansa’s heart pounding. A bedraggled girl hauls him in through the doors with no announcement of their arrival and both of them look half dead. There is a haunted look in Bran’s eyes that Sansa only just had time to register before she is bounding out from behind the head table. 

Jon reaches their brother first from his position in the middle of the room. It seems impossible that only moments ago he had just given Sansa Winterfell because in an instant everything has changed, irrevocably. In Sansa’s mind it must have been years ago, her whole world is shifting before her. Just as it did when she reached Castle Black and found Jon. It had only just begun to register in her mind the seriousness of that responsibility (to hold the North, alone), and she hadn’t had a chance to protest that it was the last thing she wanted (a separation at such a dire time) when all of that was pushed out of her mind by Bran. 

When she reaches them Jon is kneeling down and enveloping Bran in a massive hug, he is half concealed in Jon’s cloak but Sansa hardly notices as she bends down and joins them in the embrace. She doesn’t believe it, even when she feels Bran’s solidity under her fingertips. How had he survived? A question for another time she tells herself. For the moment she can only bask in his return, as unlikely as it seems. 

“We have much to discuss, privately, and as soon as possible” Bran’s voice is tense and urgent under Jon and Sansa’s smothering enclosure and it is his tone beyond anything else that is how they all end up in a small room off the Great Hall only minutes later. 

Several lords, Littlefinger included, and Brienne of course had tried to insist they be included in this discussion but Jon and Sansa had heeded their brother’s need for seclusion on instinct and refused. Jon was still their King and the arguments had mostly died on their lips. Not before Sansa made eye contact with Littlefinger and saw his distrust lining every feature, clearly a display for her since he rarely let the mask slip. 

But Sansa hardly cares for the present moment, Bran is here and that is all that matters now. It is also why the reckless words came pouring from her before she could stop them. The door had closed on the four of them and they had spilled out.

“I’m coming with you Jon. Bran is here now, he is father’s heir,” her voice had been sure but Jon’s eyes had gone wide. 

“Sansa it’s not safe you can’t—” Jon flew into counter arguments.

But Bran silenced them both, surprising sure of himself despite his youth on them both, “It is not a bad idea Sansa. But there are things you are both unaware of and I am nobody’s heir, not now.”

Jon and Sansa exchange a look. She thinks they both realize for the first time how weary their brother seems, as if he has aged decades and not years in the time since they saw him last. He is still their brother but there seems to be a constant knowledge of something ‘other’ weighing down on him. Jon and Sansa are both taken aback by his proclamation and don’t have time to gather their thoughts before he continues. 

“I have journeyed to the far North, far beyond any place we speak of now. I don’t have time to explain everything, though you need know I am far from the boy I once was. I have a more important role in all of this than can be explained in one conversation, as do both of you and that is why we must act quickly and with all the knowledge we have at our disposal,” Bran says this in one breath. 

Sansa recovers first, “Bran I don’t understand. You’re not making any sense and you haven’t told us who it is that travels with you.”

Sansa turns to the young woman with him. Her and Sansa must be of a similar age. 

She inclines her head and her voice comes out as if from far away, airy but with sorrow, “I am Meera Reed, daughter of Howland Reed and I have travelled with your brother for years now, we have saved each other’s lives for the good of the realm. Bran speaks of the old magic, of the Children of the Forest and the Three Eyed Raven.”

Jon and Sansa stare at each other again. It still makes no sense to either of them, bits and pieces but not a full picture of the predicament. 

“You have to trust me, please,” Bran is nearly begging them, Sansa thinks, he sounds achingly young all of a sudden and she kneels down. 

“We trust you,” She turns her head back to Jon and he kneels beside her, “But you need to explain this to us, tell us what it is you can.”

And so Bran does. He tells them as much as he can in just a few minutes, the journey he has endured and the things he has seen. How much he sees, future, past, and present.

“But it is not always clear,” Bran finishes and looks desperately between the two of them. 

“How,” Jon hesitates, unsure and glances at Sansa before he continues, “How do we know for sure Bran?”

Sansa’s heart aches at Jon’s words, that they can’t trust their brother implicitly on something of this magnitude but she feels the same. Bran closes his eyes. After a moment he reopens them. 

“When you and Theon had to wade through the river, you thought you would die Sansa. It was not the first time you had the thought but it was likely the closest you came. And yet you lived, to come here, back to Jon. Back home,” Bran looks at his sister steadily and then turns to Jon. 

“You saw her die, arrow to the heart yet it felt as if it had pierced your own. But that was not where your story ended, nor when your own men killed you. You were brought back in time for Sansa to find you Jon,” Bran finishes. 

The room is suffocating. Little things, Sansa thinks. Little things that only they could know, that Bran couldn’t hear from others. How? He was telling the truth. Sansa needs no further confirmation.

“Jon,” Sansa breathes and locks eyes with him. 

She sees the same thought reflected in his eyes, “I know Sansa.”

They turn back to Bran at the same time and see that he still looks bone tired. 

“There is more,” Bran sounds as if he could collapse. Meera reaches for his shoulder in support.

Bran lowers his voice, “Father. Father had a secret, a secret that could have torn the realm apart.”

Sansa and Jon don’t move. 

“Jon, you're not born of our father. Rhaegar Targaryen is your blood and our Aunt Lyanna your mother. I swear it true, I have seen it happen over a thousand times now. The tower, the blood. Father’s promise. I swear it,” Bran gives them no warning for the explosion he has dropped and Sansa thinks the walls are closing in around her. 

She looks to Jon and she thinks it is good that he has already kneeled because she knows that Bran’s words would’ve sent him to the ground otherwise. His head is hung and his shoulders shake.

“I–I’m a Targaryen?” Jon raises his head, his eyes are wet and his voice is wrecked, that of a man who’s entire world has narrowed to one solitary fact. A fact that Sansa then refuses to let define him. 

Sansa moves closer to him, grabs his hands and forces him to look her in the eye.

“You’re a Stark. Ned Stark was your true father, you know that Jon,” Sansa’s voice is the one that is desperate now, she’s pleading, pleading for him to understand this. 

“They named me King, the King in the North. Not knowing I was poisoned with Targaryen blood,” Jon shakes his head.

She only grips his hands harder, “You’re a Stark to me Jon. You always will be.”

And his eyes flicker with something then, something she can’t name but she thinks she wants to. And they stare at each other. Jon’s glassy with tears and Sansa’s hard and burning with resolve. She won’t let him do this to himself. 

“Brother or cousin, you are part of this family Jon. And that will be more important now than ever before with another Targaryen on our shores,” Bran says and breaks the stare between the two of them.

“You must go to Dragonstone Jon, it is our only hope. Only a dragon can defeat a dragon,” Bran is the one imploring now but Sansa feels Jon’s hands clench in her own and she lets him go finally. 

“I am not a dragon. But I will do this if you think it must be done brother,” Jon resolves and then adds, catching each of their eyes in turn, “For the pack.”

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Sansa agrees.

Jon looks to her then and she can tell he wants to fight her words. His lips start to move, a rebuttal just behind him but she won’t hear it. Not for this, not with this new information at their disposal.

“I won’t leave you alone in this, I can’t” Sansa’s voice comes out quiet, a promise echoing Jon’s own vow to protect her. 

It is what they have become, she thinks, as wolves are meant to be. They snarl and bare their teeth, nip at each other and fight but at the end of it all they stand together, united in their strength. 

“I think,” Bran starts and Sansa cannot read the expression on his face, “I think that may be fruitful. As I’ve said, we all have a role to play and I am apt to believe that Sansa may do more good on Dragonstone than here. Together you will be difficult to defeat.”

Jon’s eyes go back and forth between the two of them. He finally comes to a decision and nods. 

“We must return to the Lords then. They’ll be restless by now and we have many explanations,” Sansa makes to stand and go.

“Wait,” Jon stops her and grabs her wrist, bringing her back down, “If you are coming with me there is one more thing we must discuss first.”

Sansa just looks at him, anticipating what objection he will raise now. The silence seems to stretch as if he expects her to come to the conclusion herself. When she doesn’t he merely sighs.

And when Jon speaks it is with Bran’s voice amplifying his, they speak in unison, “Littlefinger.”

Sansa feels her veins turn to ice. She had been foolish to forget him, even just momentarily.

A look passes between the three Starks and Meera Reed. All of them are thinking the same thing.

* * *

Some twenty minutes later they had resumed their places in the Great Hall. Bran had no time to clean himself up but Sansa insisted he join them at the high table anyways. For simplicity they had all agreed that Meera should make herself scarce, lest the Lords question her presence too thoroughly. The less explaining the better. 

The moment Sansa had stepped into the room she had felt Littlefinger’s eyes on her but she hadn’t given him any satisfaction, instead keeping her back to him and focusing all her efforts on Jon and Bran. But now that she is seated outwards and faces their people she has little choice but to meet his eyes.

She sees so much there. She has known him for so long now and the tiniest messages come through. He is wary and confused. He is hurt by her exclusion of him but she thinks she sees understanding as well. Perhaps that is just wishful thinking on her part. Beyond that though she can anticipate the cogs turning the series of events in his mind. Bran’s presence complicates things for Littlefinger, she knows this. He has tried, at every opportunity, to turn her against Jon, using his parentage against him (Oh, if only he knew the truth now Sansa thought, he would see nothing but a piece to be used, instead of destroyed), and he showed no sign of stopping with that agenda. But he would be an idiot to not realize that using the same argument to turn her against Bran would prove impossible, a true born son. (Not that he had made headway in his case against Jon, but she figured he didn’t realize that). So yes, what they must do now is necessary. She braces herself and stands. 

“Lords of the North, it seems our circumstances have changed drastically in the last hour,” Sansa says.

She spares one glance for Jon and Bran before ploughing forward.

“Our last brother has returned to us. Brandon Stark, trueborn son of Ned and Catelyn Stark, and heir to Winterfell,” She lets this land as the Lords consider her and glance at Bran who looks no more than a wisp of a boy. Skepticism is plain on every face. 

“Bran has graciously assured us he does not wish to contest Jon’s Kingship and instead will support us going forward. And because of this, we have decided together that I will journey with Jon to Dragonstone, in order to ensure his safe return while Bran holds Winterfell in our absence,” Sansa says this with a steady voice but her hand has a slight tremor. She knows what is coming. 

There is uproar immediately. The Lords are not going to take this blow easily. 

“Quiet!” Sansa’s voice comes out commanding and even she is surprised when silence finds the room again, “I know your trepidation to be ruled by a boy you hardly know. But he has the blood of the wolf in his veins. He has journeyed further North than any of us have ever dared, and he will let no harm come to the North in our absence. Of this, I assure you.”

“And if he turns on you in this absence, My Lady?” Lord Glover, of course, questions. 

But before Sansa can respond Jon stands up, and speaks, “My Lords. I will be frank with you. I am your King, and I will not give up my crown now but I should have insisted the crown be lain on Sansa’s head that fateful night, many weeks ago now. It is she who had the birthright, and I should do the same thing now for my brother Bran. _They_ are your trueborn heirs. But I also know the instability we face, the tumult that can come and how others will perceive the North if we allow rule to change whenever we please. But I _will_ give up this crown if you don’t agree to follow Bran now. It is our only choice.”

Sansa looks to Jon then and a ghost of a smile dances on her lips. He nods at her and they let his words sink in across the room. No more words of dissent are raised. Jon and Sansa both resume their seats.

And then Sansa meets Littlefinger’s eye again, she can tell he desperately wishes to talk to her, he won’t want her leaving the North. No point in delaying then. Both Jon and Sansa turn their gaze to Bran. He is not able to stand but his voice comes out commanding the respect of the room regardless. 

“Thank you, for your acceptance, my Lords. My first act as Lord of Winterfell, unfortunately, must be a trial,” Bran’s gaze is steady and lands on nobody in particular. 

There is dispersed muttering and some of the Lords look to Jon and Sansa as if hoping they will negate Bran’s words. But of course they don’t.

“Petyr Baelish,” Bran’s voice comes out in perfect clarity and his eyes find Littlefinger, casually resting against the wall as if he has no care in the world.

But as the words register his expression shifts, Sansa will savour this moment of sweetness for the rest of her life, she decides. For the first time, maybe in his life, but definitely since she has known him, Littlefinger is absolutely shocked. And, to Sansa’s delight, she finds genuine fear in his features. No last minute escapes this time, no, it is time for the truth. 

The rest of the room is stunned silent. Even Yohn Royce doesn’t question their authority on this matter. Sansa hopes that the three of them look every bit the wolf that she feels at the moment. Three wolves circling their prey. She knows the hunger must show in their eyes, hers most of all. It has been a long time coming. 

Littlefinger, to his credit, takes a few cautious steps to the now unoccupied centre of the room. 

“Me? My Lord, I’m sorry but we don’t even know each other, I can hardly guess what you need to put me on trial for,” He’s sweating, Sansa can tell despite his false bravado. 

And she takes this as her cue. 

She rises from her seat, and she makes the briefest eye contact with Brienne. Poor Brienne, she knew nothing of this but she is ready and alert for Sansa’s signal. She communicates clearly to the woman with a flick of her eyes that she needs to position herself in front of the exit in case Littlefinger tries anything and within a second Brienne is moving, silently and undetected by the rest of the distracted room, to her post. 

In the next second, Sansa speaks, “You stand accused of murder, you stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges, Lord Baelish?”

Littlefinger seems at a loss, “Sansa, surely this is a jest, I—”

“She is your Lady. You will address her as such,” Jon’s voice comes out as a growl from Sansa’s elbow. 

Littlefinger has no footing and he actually pulls at his collar, she hopes that the fear drilling into his bones at this very moment is even a fraction of what she has felt because of him. 

“Of course, Your Grace, my apologies,” Littlefinger responds, “Lady Stark, what–what are the charges for, er- specifically?”

Sansa arches one eyebrow. 

“I thought they would be clear but I can explain them for all to hear if you like,” Sansa makes her voice sound almost bored as if all of this is below her, “Firstly, treason. You have plotted openly against our King from before he even had his crown, you have made your intentions clear in wishing to have me usurp him. This is treason most high.”

The silence in the room persists and Littlefinger can only blink. 

Bran speaks then, “And you betrayed our father to the Lannisters, for telling the truth of Cersei’s incest and the lineage of the Iron Throne. You said, ‘I did warn you not to trust me.’ Another treason against House Stark.”

Littlefinger pales further and appears as if the air has gone out of him.

“You can’t possibly prove–” Littlefinger is stammering and looking around the room more desperately every second. 

“Silence while the charges are read,” Jon says this just as fiercely as he did the first time when he defended Sansa. 

She looks at him then, he sits on his chair as if it is a proper throne. He is relaxed and in his element, all three of them are. They have had Bran back for only an hour but they work seamlessly and as one. A pack in sync and getting closer with every step.

“And you killed our Aunt Lysa. I can testify to that, I witnessed it, after all. And I have concealed it for fear that I would meet the same end,” Sansa says with grim satisfaction because she sees that this seals it for Yohn Royce and the Lords of the Vale. He will find no help there. 

Littlefinger falls to his knees then and she can see actual tears welling up in his eyes. Her resolve doesn’t waver though, she must persist. 

“Do you have any defence for these crimes, Lord Baelish?” Bran asks.

“Sansa, please I beg you. I loved your mother. I _love_ you, I would have married—” Littlefinger’s blubbering is cut short by Jon standing up and unsheathing his sword in one motion. 

"I warned you once Baelish, to not disrespect my–,” Jon falters and glances at Sansa fleetingly, “To not disrespect the Lady of Winterfell. Your time here is done, you do not deny these crimes?”

Jon’s voice is booming and he is stepping towards Littlefinger who is squirming out of his skin. 

“Brienne!” Sansa shouts then and Brienne moves quickly to restrain the man before them by standing down on legs and holding his hands behind his back. 

Littlefinger is gasping just as Jon reaches him, “Sansa you’ll regret this. You’ll see the truth of him, of the bastard you allowed to be your King, you could’ve—”

Jon’s sword swings down and Littlefinger’s pleas are cut short. His head bounces across the bricks on the floor and lands just in front of Sansa at the high table. 

She looks down her nose at the decapitated head of the man who controlled her for so many years and feels nothing. She turns on her heel and exits the room.

* * *

Jon finds Sansa in her rooms. He knocks at the door but when he hears no response he cracks open the door himself. 

She is standing at the window. The moon outlines her in a white pearly glow, haloing her from head to toe. Even turned away from him, she is radiant. Absolutely ethereal. And it makes his mouth go dry.

“Sansa,” The word comes out like a prayer and he shuts the door behind him.

She doesn’t turn though, she seems as still as a statue. Unbending, immovable, and rooted in place. Fixed to the ground where she was built. 

He takes several steps towards her and places a hand on her lower back. She recoils, but only slightly and he doesn’t remove his hand. 

“Sansa,” he repeats now, softer since he is closer to her, “His body. It’s gone.”

Sansa turns her head towards him at that. Her eyes are bright and tears spill out of them. Her cheeks are splotchy and flushed on her usually smooth skin. But the blue of her eyes is shining, the tears making the colour pop, oddly tranquil in her grief. 

“I do not mourn,” Sansa says with a slight sniff but no wobble in her voice. No choked sob or watery hesitation. Only clarity. 

“Sansa,” Jon aches now and he rubs a circle into her lower spine, “Nobody blames you if you do. He tormented you for years but he also saved you from King’s Landing. His treachery after that doesn’t negate that. Of course, things are complex.”

Sansa closes her eyes then and Jon continues to rub circles for several minutes. They stand there in silence. Jon looks out the window and sees the moon is full and huge on the horizon. It coats all the snow below and makes it reflect in ghostly white, the same white that had coated Sansa in his entrance. 

Sansa straightens herself then and opens her eyes, pulling slightly away from Jon’s touch. For a brief moment he wonders if he had overstepped the invisible barrier that they both tread with care. But she seems unrattled. 

“Thank you, Jon,” Sansa manages the smallest of smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes, “I appreciate it.”

Sansa walks over to her table then, and pulls out a chair. A clear message that talks of Littlefinger will be put aside for the rest of the night. There is a flagon of wine and two goblets already set out. Sansa pours the drink into both and turns her head to Jon, waiting. A ritual for them that they have engaged in for many moons now. Sharing secrets, fears, memories with each other at the end of each day, gradually building something yet undefined between them. Jon joins her, letting the chair drag over the stone as he pulls it back. 

“Bran,” Jon says, one word and voice barely above a whisper.

Sansa takes a sip from her cup and sets it down, “I know.”

They sit in silence for a few more minutes, both contemplative. Both musing over their wine and considering what they could possibly say in the face of such events. 

It is Sansa who breaks the silence, “Do you believe him? About your parentage?”

Her voice is hushed, as if speaking too loudly will break him. And Jon thinks it just might. He has hardly had time to let it all soak in. Yet Sansa’s words echo in his mind. _You always will be._ He would always be a Stark to her. But would he always be her brother? Now that his parentage said otherwise. (He had tried not to dwell on that tidbit for too long). He banishes the dark thought the second it intrudes. Insidious and dangerous things, that is all that line of thinking will bring out.

Jon takes a swig and then lets out a sigh, “I think I have to.”

Sansa considers him, lets him continue. 

“It makes the most sense. Father, your father, he loved your Lady Mother and it never made sense to me, or anyone else, how he would betray that trust. And the timeline adds up, it makes too much sense to wave it off. It’s almost a miracle the thought hasn’t occurred to anyone else. But Ned Stark’s honour…” 

Sansa reaches across the table and lays her hand on top of Jon’s, ever gentle.

“He is your father Jon,” Sansa assures him again, “He is.”

“Rhaegar and Lyanna may be your blood parents, but you will always belong to this pack. To _my_ pack,” Sansa’s eyes hold Jon’s in such a fierce and piercing gaze that he nearly forgets to breathe. 

Instead he lets out half a laugh, “I know Sansa. You’ve told me.”

He lets the tension diffuse and Sansa withdraws her hand. It seems to leave a scorch mark as her skin nearly always does. 

They devolve into silence again, both sipping at their wine and getting lost in their own thoughts of the day’s events. This time it is Jon who breaks their silence. 

“I can hardly believe he survived,” He breathes out without really intending to. 

“It seems incredible that any of us have lived this long. Wait any longer and I half expect Arya to show up in the courtyard, Gods I wish–” Sansa stops speaking as if she has just realized what she said.

It had been unspoken between them, that they had never spoken of Arya and Bran. The rest of their family, yes. The ones they had lost, the ones they had definitive proof of their loss, he should say. The pain they could pinpoint and dissect, learn to overcome together. It had been safe, even healing. And they had talked of Bran and Arya in the past, in memories. But not in hypotheticals. Hypotheticals are dangerous for people like them. For Sansa and himself, who until today were thought to be the last of their kind. Two wolves alone in the world. Speaking of Bran and Arya and their unknown fates only brought pain to both of them. But with Bran’s reappearance Sansa had foregone their unvoiced agreement. 

“I’m sorry, I–” Sansa starts.

“I miss her too,” Jon cuts her off, he won’t let her apologize for this. Not when it lingers just below both of their words. 

Sansa looks up at Jon and he can see all the pain there. The pain that he has learned about in pieces since she arrived at Castle Black. The pain he can never erase but vows to prevent from happening again. The scars that she hides, that he knows she hates. She thinks they tarnish her. (He disagrees, they tell her story, the same as his. And if she hates them that is her right, but the ones who gave them to her cannot tarnish what was never theirs in the first place).

“Dragonstone,” Sansa says then, changing the subject from their long missing sister, “We have to talk about it.”

Jon hates it. But he knows she is right. He hates that he knows he won’t sway her from her decision but he wishes that he could. He wishes that he could keep her here, safe with Bran and Brienne and far from the Mad King’s possibly mad daughter. Yet he realizes that Sansa doesn’t need protection, least of all from him. She has been more than capable of looking after herself for a long time now, that won’t stop him from looking after her though. 

“I won’t try to change your decision,” He speaks calmly.

Sansa actually looks taken aback, she had clearly been bracing for a fight. 

“But we need to agree to go into this together. We can’t let her tear us apart, or any of them actually, her retinue. We need to present a united front,” Jon knows they’ve both made mistakes on this particular issue in the past, and it is not something he is eager to recreate. 

Sansa nods before he is even finished speaking, “Of course I agree. We must assume that they will be looking for any weakness to drive a wedge between us. We can’t give them the opportunity.”

It’s odd, Jon thinks. To have found this common ground with Sansa now. They had so many issues leading up to the Battle of the Bastards but in the wake of it they seem to have come away with clear heads. As if they see each other truly for the first time. When Jon doesn’t respond to her, Sansa continues on. 

“Daenerys Targaryen is said to be quite beautiful.”

It is not at all what Jon is expecting and he coughs on his wine. 

“Yes, I’ve heard…” Jon says, confusion lining his features. 

“She may attempt,” Sansa raises one eyebrow at him, “To bring you to her side by any means necessary.”

Sansa lets her words settle and Jon is sure his face must be as red as her hair. He fears that if he doesn’t respond she will continue to speak so he hurries to close the subject. 

“Don’t worry Sansa, there is absolutely nothing she can do to entice me to her bed,” Jon says much more bluntly than he hoped to and perhaps a bit harsher as well. He hopes she doesn’t pick up on the second meaning imbued in his words. 

(You don’t fall into bed with a woman, no matter how beautiful, when another’s face is always lurking when you close your eyes).

Sansa’s face transforms into an unreadable expression and she appears deep in thought. He hopes that she won’t press him further, let her make what she will of his words. But he will remain steadfast, he will not take the Dragon Queen to bed. 

“Fine. We must also be worried about Lords Varys and Tyrion Lannister,” She swirls the wine in her glass, “I think myself perfectly adept at handling Varys, but Tyrion may present a complication.”

Jon lets out a sigh of relief at the topic change, “In all you’ve told me about Tyrion and from what I know of him from our time at the wall. He is amicable enough but slippery as a snake. It shouldn’t be anything we can’t handle.”

Sansa sighs, “What I mean is, our marriage.”

And oh. Yes. That. Jon had let himself, perhaps intentionally, forget about that specific complication. Their marriage, the one that tied Sansa to him. 

“It was unconsummated of course,” Sansa continues and Jon’s blood feels as if it pulses quicker at her words, “But he may try to press it into legitimacy despite my second marriage. I won’t allow it to happen of course, but it may create unnecessary tension.”

Sansa doesn’t seem worried, in fact she seems at ease. But Jon wants to say something to ease her mind, let her know that Tyrion won’t come near her if she doesn’t want him to, that he won’t allow it. But he thinks it may come across wrong so he holds his tongue. 

“We’ll deal with that together if it comes to it,” He says instead, a compromise and a promise to not leave her alone in this, as she has vowed to him. 

She locks eyes with him and then finishes the rest of her goblet. 

“I should get some rest, it will be a long day tomorrow if we plan to leave the day after,” Sansa says and rises.

Her meaning of, _you should go_ , is left unsaid.

There had been one night. One night that left Jon’s pulse racing and his skin burning. It was one of their first days after retaking Winterfell. And they had been celebratory. They both had too much to drink and Jon hadn’t made it back to his chambers. They had both been laughing heartily and collapsed on Sansa’s bed. They had victory in their veins and too much liquor clouding their judgement. Not to mention utter exhaustion from the weeks of battle preparations. And they had fallen asleep talking. Completely innocent. But when they had both woken the next morning they had been abashed and embarrassed. Jon had fled her rooms in a hurry and luckily the aberration went unnoticed by the rest of the castle and it laid undiscussed between the two of them. And ever since, Sansa has been guarded and cautious, never drinking more than one glass and ensuring they both get to bed not too late. And she is right to do so, Jon knows this. There is still a part of him that is stung. 

Jon rises to go anyways and when he reaches the door he turns back. 

Sansa stands across the room, facing him now and bathed in the moon glow from behind. Haloed again, and just as brilliant as before. 

“Tomorrow,” Jon agrees and opens the door, slipping into the night and away from the temptations behind him. 

* * *

Sansa knows that they have to be on their way but Bran has asked her and Jon to come say a goodbye to him privately. And they can hardly deny him. After being gone for so long and now with them leaving so promptly, they have to soak in as much as possible, lest they regret it later. Sansa knows too well that if you take for granted those you love, all you are left with is their ghosts that haunt your dreams and cause pangs in your heart. 

So, she is hurrying through Winterfell’s corridors to where Bran asked them to meet. She is all prepared to leave right after this. Brienne and Davos wait, with their small group of men they are bringing, for her and Jon. She hates to keep them waiting any longer but this is important.

The last day had been a whirlwind. The night after Bran had returned she had fallen into a deep slumber and dreamt that all the Starks stood again in Winterfell. They had stood together on the battlements, all of them grown. Some of her siblings stood with faceless spouses, there were children running around too. But not Sansa, she stood by Jon’s side for the duration of the dream. She tried not to dwell too long on what that might indicate and instead just basked in the happy feeling the dream had given her. Even knowing that all that could never be, it felt as if her family was here with them now. Watching over her, Jon and Bran. 

The day had been full with meetings and preparations. The decision to take Davos and Brienne with them had been easy. Davos was Jon’s closest advisor and Brienne was Sansa’s. Their support would be crucial in the hostile territory they were throwing themselves into. Plus, Sansa doubted she would’ve been able to sway Brienne from coming even if she wanted her to stay. 

She had worried that they were leaving Bran unprotected. But the strange presence that was Meera Reed didn’t seem to be planning to go anywhere soon. With Littlefinger gone he didn’t have to worry on that front. And Sansa had spoken briefly with Yohn Royce who had given his assurances that they would protect Bran if it came to that. Furthermore, Jon had hand selected a small group of men that he trusted to look out for him in their absence. It gave her some peace of mind but she didn’t think she would ever be fully at ease with their decision to leave him behind so soon. Not that they had any other option.

And then last night, she had been restless. Jon hadn’t come to her chambers and it had bothered her. She ended up drinking too much wine and tossing and turning most of the night. She played out all the scenarios that could happen while they were on Dragonstone. Yes, they could be killed on the spot or taken prisoner. But Sansa worried more about the political side of things. Varys and Tyrion were not mere trifles, they were skilled at this and she had to be ready to don her armour if she expected to make it out unscathed. On top of that she was concerned for Jon. She trusted him, yes. But he wasn’t used to this. If Daenerys intended to deploy her….wiles. Then there might be little Sansa could do to change his mind. The thought made her blood run cold and she tried to not look too far into that. (Especially not with the new knowledge of Jon’s blood running around her mind). It was only the worry that he would be manipulated that plagued her, at least that is what she told herself.

And then this morning. It had been all last minute preparations and conversations that needed to be had if the dead marched sooner than they predicted. 

Sansa takes the last few turns at near break neck speed and arrives at the room out of breath and flushed. Damn Bran for picking a room so far out of the way.

She opens the door and finds Bran and Jon have already been talking. They break off when she enters the room. 

“What have I missed?” She asks while she steadies her breath and closes the door behind her. 

The smallest look passes between Bran and Jon. 

“Not much sister,” Bran’s voice is calm and conceals anything that he might not want her to pick up on. Sansa lets it drop, she assumes if it is of importance that Jon will tell her anyways.

She sidles up next to Jon and they both stand before Bran, waiting to see why he brought them here.

“Now that you have both arrived I’ll get to the point,” He starts. 

“I see many things, many possible futures. Some glimpses, some complete visions. But the future is changeable. I wish I could tell you more, but I risk disrupting the course you both choose if I do,” Bran continues. 

Jon and Sansa exchange a look, it seems to be all they do in his presence, confusion after confusion. She thinks his thoughts mirror her own. Their brother seems to speak more in riddles these days than in the common tongue. 

“Telling you about the past is safe, it has already occured,” He looks meaningfully between them both but Sansa isn’t sure what he is looking for, “What I can tell you now, is be on your guard.”

Sansa’s hands are behind her back and they clench into one another, leaving marks on her hands from where her nails dig in. She feels, rather than sees, Jon tense besider her too and they both suck in a breath.

“I have watched the Dragon Queen for sometime and she is not to be underestimated. You both must use all you have learned going forward. I will hold Winterfell in your absence but it will not be forever, it cannot be. You both must make it back here if we have any chance going forward,” Bran is serious now and bores his eyes into both of them as if searching their hearts for any false notes.

“Bran,” Sansa’s voice hesitates, “If you could let us know what to expect–”

“It’s not possible Sansa,” Bran closes the subject then, “I trust you both and I hope we see each other all again, sooner rather than later. Your roles will be much more dangerous than my own, so take care.”

Sansa takes this as a cue to bend to embrace Bran and Jon follows suit. They remain, for a few seconds in the embrace. Then Jon ducks his head out and speaks.

“And the dragons?” Jon asks.

“They serve a purpose,” Bran says, even more mysteriously and then no more. 

Jon and Sansa pull away and look down at Bran. It is impossible to understand what he has become, but in his heart he is their brother and Sansa will always love him. But there are so many unknowns, it is hard to not grow frustrated.

“Go now,” Bran gestures for them to leave and begins to usher them out, “I won’t come to the courtyard so you shouldn’t linger. Time is of the essence.”

Jon and Sansa leave the room and that is all the goodbye they have. Just before they turn at the end of the hallway she spares one glance and looks back into the watchful eyes of Bran, and can’t help but think that he knows much more than he has told them. There is something knowing in his eyes.

* * *

It’s on the eve before they board their ship to Dragonstone that Sansa broaches the subject. Her and Jon sit up alone at their small campfire. Brienne has taken first watch and sits some twenty feet out from their camp, a sentry silent in the night. And the rest of their group has turned in for the night. Unsurprisingly Jon and Sansa both find sleep difficult to contemplate. 

Tomorrow they will rise early and take a ship directly to Dragonstone, they will meet the Queen who expects nothing less than their submission in the afternoon. So much rides on this meeting, they need to gain her assistance in the war to come all while maintaining their independence and making sure that they don’t get burned alive. It is a bleak prospect. 

“What do you think Bran has seen? Of the future I mean,” Sansa says after they had lapsed into several minutes of silence, the fire crackling in the darkness between them.

Jon raises his head from his glass of ale which sloshes noisily. He is aglow in the firelight, the flames highlighting the planes of his face and accenting his scars. He reminds Sansa of a hero from a song in that moment. The fire changes and the image is gone.

“Oh, I don’t know Sansa,” Jon sounds unsure, “It’s all old magic I guess. Who knows what of it is true?”

Sansa considers this, she knows that Jon had believed readily his parentage without concrete proof. But didn’t that just seem so obvious? When Bran had said it it was like deciphering a code after many years and it had just made sense. But the future? It is changeable and changing all the time, Jon is right about that.

“Well then what do you hope he sees?” Sansa asks and she isn’t sure why she is intent on the subject.

But she knows that since Bran’s departing words she has wondered incessantly about what he saw, about what he meant when he said they must both return to Winterfell if they were to have any hope? Had he seen futures where one or both of them fall, did it always end badly then? The thought sends a chill down her spine despite the warmth of the fire in front of her.

Jon stares deeply into the fire at her question and takes a long time to answer her. When he does, he doesn’t meet her eye. 

“I hope he sees us all safe. And happy. And I hope he sees the direwolves return to the North. I hope he sees us at peace, and no more wars, not for us and not for our children or grandchildren,” Jon says lowly. 

When he looks up he must realize what he said because Sansa’s face is frozen. His choice of words. She knows he meant nothing by it. But when he said ‘our children’ her thoughts had stopped. The thought of children with Jon. The idea was as dangerous as it was enticing. But she reprimanded herself mentally for even thinking about it. 

She flicks her eyes back to Jon.

“I didn’t mean—” Jon starts hastily. 

Sansa talks over him, “I hope he sees that too. All of it. It is what the North deserves.”

She thinks she sees Jon let out a sigh of relief across the fire and they settle back into silence for a few seconds before Sansa continues. 

“You know,” Sansa says and eyes Jon, “Maybe it’s naive, but I still want that one day. A husband, a family, a loving home. I don’t know where I would find a man I could trust with all of that. But even after them all: Joffrey, Tyrion, Littlefinger, and Ramsay. I still want that. Do you think it makes me a foolish girl to dream so?”  
  
She’s earnest in her question but she feels her heart race.

Jon’s eyes hold her for an infinite amount of time. They stare at each other across the fire and Sansa actually starts to sweat, Jon’s eyes feel so intense on her and she knows he is choosing his words very carefully. 

And when he speaks it is with deliberate intention. 

“I think… that you deserve all you dream for Sansa. And I hope, beyond hope, that you have all you desire and more one day,” Jon’s voice is still low and husky.

It makes her yearn and then recoil. Jon is her brother, why does she insist on forgetting that fact? It matters not that Bran has revealed them to be cousins. He will always see her as such and anything that she thinks she sees in his eyes is mere wishful thinking. She pushes it from her mind, forcefully this time. 

“Thank you, Jon,” Sansa says quietly and looks to her hands. 

When she peaks up a few minutes later Jon still gazes at her from across the fire, his eyes unblinking.

* * *

The next day, they arrive on the shores of Dragonstone in the late morning. The skies are overcast and the water is choppy. When their boat hits the shore her and Jon are already standing and prepared to disembark. 

“Ready?” Jon looks to her and reaches out to squeeze her hand once. Letting go as quick as he grabs it. 

She stares at him, “As ready as we can be.”

They walk off the boat together, stride for stride and moving as a united front. She knows that Davos and Brienne are only two steps behind them and that the rest of their small group follows closely behind those two. It gives her some small comfort to know that they have not come to this island unprepared, but she does feel as if they are walking into something that is impossible to anticipate. 

There are several figures further up the beach and she automatically straightens herself and raises up her chin. She sees Jon do the same from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t know who will be here to receive them but it is best to slip into her mask now, before she is forced to do so. 

As they get closer she notices one figure in particular, shorter than the rest by at least two feet. Tyrion. Of course he would be here but she is suddenly unsure if she is ready to remake his acquaintance. She is sent into the memory of their wedding night, how she had been a terrified girl in his presence and a shudder passes through her. She knows Jon glances at her for just a second but she doesn’t acknowledge it, just continues to march on. 

Then Tyrion’s voice calls out, they are close now.

“Lady Stark, Lord Snow. It is our pleasure.”

The slight already burns Sansa though she expected nothing less. Jon is their King, he deserves Tyrion’s respect. Now they have reached the group and they come to a halt. It is a group, roughly the same size as their own. Sansa recognizes nobody apart from Tyrion. The rest are men, Unsullied soldiers she assumes, based on what she knows of the Dragon Queen. The only one who stands out is a singular woman. She is slight. She has dark skin and hair that coils outwards. She is quite beautiful, Sansa thinks, and her presence here is a surprise. Who is she?

As if responding to her thought Tyrion speaks, “This is Missandei of Naath. She is our Queen’s most trusted advisor and she comes to greet you.”

Sansa thinks then that she has heard something about the slave that Daenerys freed and took into her service. 

Missandei steps forward then, “Our Queen thanks you for journeying so far to see her, she recognizes that the trip is long and not to be scoffed at, she realizes that those of the North do not easily venture so far from their home land.”

Her words are sweet but also practiced. She seems genuine but she also appears to be a mouthpiece at best, just reciting what her Queen has told her. 

“We ask you kindly to remove your weapons at this time,” Missandei continues. 

The words root Sansa to the ground. The consideration is numbing. Maybe she should have foreseen this but she had not. It dawns on her then that nobody from their camp has spoken yet. 

“Does your Queen mean to take us prisoner then, Lady Missandei?” Sansa’s voice comes out composed and she doesn’t miss a beat.

Missandei seems unsure then and she sees her share a glance with Tyrion. 

“Of course not, my Lady,” Missandei’s voice falters.

“Then I see no reason for us to give up our weapons, surely we are a small enough group. Daenerys is sure to have many men on this island, we are hardly a threat when your island must outnumber us ten to one,” Sansa continues, being sure to not raise her voice once, speaking instead with a cool logic. 

“Sansa surely you see–” Tyrion starts but he is cut off. 

“I believe you mean Lady Sansa, my Lord,” Brienne’s voice comes from behind Sansa’s left shoulder and she realizes belatedly that Brienne and Davos have taken their places on either side of her and Jon.

And she is momentarily relieved that it is Brienne who has raised this concern and not Jon. She can see him upset about the occurence to her right but she is not quick to forget how he reacted to Littlefinger making the same mistake, it is not something they need to repeat here. 

Tyrion appraises their group once again, “Ahh, Lady Brienne. Of course, a mistake on my part. I guess I am used to the informality from the time of our marriage. My apologies, Lady Sansa.”

Tyrion bows his head and it is clear that he is going for light hearted but it doesn’t meet its mark because Jon is the one who speaks up next. 

“Careful, Lord Tyrion,” Jon all but growls, “She is your wife no longer.”

Tyrion stares at Jon for several long seconds, considering. 

“Jon Snow, it has been a long time, I believe we last saw each other on top of the Wall. Now you find yourself King in the North, funny how things work out for a man of the Night’s Watch,” Tyrion says this all lightly but Sansa watches Jon carefully.

There is a muscle in his jaw ticking but otherwise outwardly he seems calm. 

“And you find yourself Hand to a foreign Queen,” Jon returns to what he has clearly interpreted as a jab and Sansa sucks in her breath. 

Missandei speaks then, “Queen Daenerys is not a foreigner my Lord, she was born in Westeros and returns here now to reclaim her birthright.”

The group descends into silence. Sansa is unsure what to say to Missandei’s proclamation and when it is Davos who saves them she is grateful. 

“Now hear everyone,” Davos steps into the middle of the two groups, “Surely we have better things to do than to stand around talking semantics.”

Nobody answers him.

“Lord Tyrion, I am Lord Davos of House Seaworth and the hand to King Jon,” Davos continues, “One Hand to another, we would like to meet your Queen and discuss what we have all come here to talk about. We shouldn’t waste time.”

In the continued silence Sansa looks to Jon and in his eyes she sees her own thoughts. They are both thankful that they made the right choice in bringing Davos here, he is a natural peacemaker. 

Tyrion sighs, “I agree, let us go up to the castle.”

Before Tyrion can turn though Sansa speaks up.

“And of our weaponry?” Sansa asks because the Unsullied are still standing on guard, looking her group over.

Tyrion and Missandei share another meaningful look. Tyrion looks resigned, Missandei nervous. 

“You may keep them,” Tyion says and turns to lead them away, “For now, Lady Stark.”

Their group proceeds in stony silence up a mountainous path towards the castle of Daenerys Targaryen. The castle itself is imposing and ominous but Sansa cannot deny that the island itself is beautiful. The water surrounding it laps ferociously in every direction and makes it seem as if it is the only thing for miles and miles. The grass is green and sprawling even as Winter has begun to creep into the North. The island screams power, it shrieks in impenetrability and she understands why the Targaryens favour it. 

She is only half a step behind Jon when it happens. There is a great noise in the distance, unfamiliar but something Sansa thinks she identifies very quickly. Dragons. 

She realizes this a mere half second before the rest of them so when they swoop down, closer than comfort, overhead, she is the only one who remains standing. To her shock, Jon has both hands over his head and is clutching to the ground for dear life. Davos and the rest of her men are doing much the same. Brienne has not gone to the ground but has bent down into a defensive position. 

Sansa, in truth, recognizes that part of her is rooted to the ground in fear. But she knows that from the outside she must appear completely unbothered. She has kept her expression schooled into one of neutrality and doesn’t let any of her thoughts or fears show. She follows the dragons as they continue to fly and circle the island. This display is not something she will be quick to forget, it seems that Daenerys enjoys intimidation because Sansa sees this little show as anything but coincidence. 

“They take some getting used to,” Tyrion says slyly from ahead where the rest of his party remains, fully standing and unreactive to the huge beasts while those around Sansa stand and regain their composure, “But not to Lady Stark it seems. She always has been unflinching in the face of danger.”

Tyrion turns and beckons them forward and they all begin to follow again.

Tyrion’s words follow her all the way up the path. He admits that they are in danger here. That the dragons are a threat and something to be feared, lest they be unleashed.

* * *

Sansa, Jon, Brienne and Davos are brought to a small antechamber to wait for the Queen to summon them. They had been allowed to keep their weapons, as promised. However, they were told to leave them here when they went to meet the Queen. The other guards who travelled with them would watch over them with the assurance they would be given back after talks proceeded.

The guards closed the doors on them and Jon let out a huge sigh of relief.

Sansa’s eyes flickered up to his, “We can’t let our guard down now.”

Sansa’s voice is watchful still and she looks to Brienne and Davos as well. As promised, they must present a united front, the worst is yet to come. Surely they realize this?

Jon’s eyes are steely and his voice comes out biting, “How do you expect us to survive what comes next Sansa? You saw the dragons.”

Sansa looks again to Brienne and Davos and sees the same fear there. Jon losing it now won’t help anyone. 

“My Lady did not even flinch at the sight of them Your Grace, perhaps we should listen to her,” Brienne says and the pride in her voice is obvious.

Sansa guesses now is not the time to tell them it was half fear that rooted her to the spot. Instead she grips Jon’s arms. Forcing him to look her in the eyes. 

“What matters now is not what she has out there waiting for us. It is what we say, we must figure out what makes her tick, inside her mind. It is all that can save us,” Sansa’s plea is more desperate than she intended it to be but Jon’s eyes smolder with something and she can tell he grits his teeth when he gives her a short nod. 

Just then the doors are opened again and Sansa drops her arms on instinct and instantly takes a step away from Jon, she had grown too used to the lack of personal space between them. Best not to let Daenerys’ guards report that to their Queen. 

However, based on their expressions they have noticed that something is off because it takes them a moment to recover and only then do they request that they come with them to the Queen’s throne room. Luckily, for them, Davos is always ready and waiting. 

“Of course, we are ready now, let us go quickly,” Davos says and strides from the room, giving a stern look to both her and Jon. The meaning is clear, get it together and quick. They follow the guards out, the four of them, Davos in front and with Brienne taking up the rear position. 

In the little Sansa has seen of the castle on Dragonstone, she dislikes it. It proved imposing and intimidating from the outside. As if it housed something of great power and history. And while it does, it also feels empty. She is no stranger to the cold, growing up in Winterfell but this is different. Sure, the castle had been physically empty for a while since Stannis had vacated it, but this emptiness goes deeper Sansa thinks, it feels void of emotion. Everything is shrouded in darkness and it feels as if something sinister lurks in the mortar that holds the bricks together. That its very creation was poisonous. Sansa resists a shiver as the guards in front of them open the huge doors they have suddenly arrived at, that seem more appropriate for a palace and not this ordinary hall, and beckon for them to go in. 

They step inside and the heavy doors are closed behind them. 

Sansa is on her guard immediately. There are great windows that let in light, but it is a grey light with little warmth. The room is grand enough to match the doors and she notices both Davos and Jon look around at the spectacle of it all, their heads turning as they take it all in. She turns her gaze to Brienne and finds the opposite. Her position is defensive, even as they continue forward, and her vision is focused on precisely one point. Sansa turns and takes her in.

Daenerys Targaryen. Their host and the Queen who wants to subjugate them once again. She _is_ beautiful, it is the first thought Sansa has and she mentally reprimands herself for the surface level observation. But it is true. Her hair is white, almost glowing in how it makes her appear other-worldly. Her eyes have a purple glint to them that one can see even from afar and she sits in a throne carved into… rock? Or is it dragon glass? Sansa files away the observation for later. Either way it is imposing and while it dwarfs the woman sitting in it, it serves to magnify her power. 

And yet, Sansa can not help but think there is something not right about the image. She seems so solitary. And rigid. As if she herself is part of the throne as well. There is a strong undercurrent that raises her hackles, she has seen this before. Joffrey, Cersei, Ramsay, cruel people with cruel intentions who build up a veneer of power, but in her experience that power is brittle. 

Their group comes to a stop and she lets out a breath. 

Missandei, the woman from earlier, steps forward. And her voice rings out.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. The Mother of Dragons. The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Unburnt. The Breaker of Chains,” She finishes, finally..

Sansa is astonished but she doesn’t let her expression change. The woman Missandei had spoken with a reverence edging on worship. And it suddenly slots into place for her. Daenerys inspires through fear, as her reputation precedes her, but it is more than that. Her followers think her Holy, a god of the dragons she possesses, take them away and what do you have? It seems almost too simple. 

Davos steps forward promptly, gesturing first to Jon, “Your Grace, this is Jon Snow, he is the King in the North.”

Davos moves his arm towards Sansa, “And this is—”

“Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark,” Sansa’s voice cuts across him at the last minute because she can’t stand to have someone else say it for her, her name was a curse for so long, but it has been all she has ever needed and here now, with Daenerys’ dozen titles Sansa feels more powerful than any Queen.

Sansa gives the barest nod of her head but does not honour Daenerys with the title she knows is expected. If it is a misstep then she will know soon enough but she can’t bring herself to regret it, seeing Daenerys’ eyes, which had been focused solely on Jon flicker to herself and then widen. Drinking her in. Clearly she is not what Daenerys was expecting. 

“Thank you, my Lord, my Lady,” Daenerys smirks down at them both but there is nothing kind in the expression, “I hope your journey was easy, I recognize that it is no small thing to come from Winterfell on such short notice.”

They all stop for a moment, clearly waiting for one person to direct the conversation next and to Sansa’s surprise it is Brienne.

“Excuse me, Your Grace. But Jon Snow is King in the North. He is no Lord,” Brienne says, completely polite.

And oh, Brienne is too good to be Sansa’s sworn shield she thinks. More manners than even Sansa’s years of practice can match. 

Daenerys’ expression falters then, “I’m sorry, my Lady…”

She hesitates and looks to Tyrion, “Apologies, Your Grace, this is Lady Brienne and Lord Davos. Advisors to the North.”

Tyrion’s demeanour too, Sansa notes, hedges on reverence. He is not as deep as Missandei but he has bought into Daenerys’ game. A pity, Sansa thinks, he used to be much more clever than he appears now. 

Daenerys nods and then focuses her look back on the four of them, “I’m sorry, Lady Brienne. I never did have a proper education, you know. But if my history is correct, then the last monarch in the North was King Torrhen who bent the knee to my ancestor, King Aegon… In perpetuity.”

Daenerys lets a smile spread over her face as if she has won some great triumph while Sansa is only shocked that the woman didn’t comment on the fact that Sansa herself failed to honour Daenerys’ titles. But perhaps she sees Sansa as beneath worrying about, from what she knows of her, it would not surprise her. The words she did speak just leave Sansa with a dull sense of the games she has seen played all her life. It is tiresome, but Sansa readies herself for what comes next. Before she can though, Daenerys continues.

“What does perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?” And her voice takes on a lilt of amusement, Sansa struggles to maintain a look of neutrality while her skin crawls in disgust and she steals a glance at Jon, realizing the same expression lurks there under his skin. 

“Forever,” Tyrion responds on command. 

Silence descends on them again. 

“And when your family was deposed of the throne? One would assume that those vows are no longer duty bound,” Sansa asks, her voice careful but her words combative.

Daenerys nearly sneers, “My father was deposed by a usurper with no right to that throne. A usurper your father helped, if I recall.”

Jon tenses at Daenerys’ words but Sansa silences him with a look from the corner of her eye. Not now, she implores him to understand. Sansa merely looks on, as if with boredom. It had not taken much to strip back one layer of Daenerys’ outer shield. But that was enough for now. 

She allows Daenerys a moment, and as Sansa expected, Daenerys readies herself. The mask is put back on and she speaks calmly. 

“I assume, My Lord,” She turns her gaze back to Jon, “That you are here to bend the knee.”

It is an absurd statement, Sansa thinks. Given the circumstances. But she is backpedaling now, realizing her mistakes. And it takes Jon a moment to recover from her words. Then he responds.

“I am not.”

Sansa can see the resignation in every line of his body, etched into his face. This fight is the last thing he has wanted and yet they are here, leagues away from the army of the dead to the North having to make talk with a foreign Queen that Jon would rather have to kill than negotiate with. Relief floods her for a moment, she was right to not let Jon embark here alone. It could have been a disaster. 

“You travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?” Daenerys’ words are incredulous. 

Sansa is about to respond to that but it is Jon who can seemingly take it no longer, Jon who defends them from this woman’s nonsense.

“Break faith?” Jon’s eyebrows knit together and he takes a step forward, “Your father burned my grandfather alive, he burned my uncle–”

Sansa alone thinks she hears Jon’s voice catching on the words grandfather and uncle. They remain true but in a new way, one that he probably only realized in that moment. Sansa wishes to reach for him. But Daenerys interrupts him.

“My father was a madman. I will not deny that here today, Jon Snow. But do not judge a daughter by the sins of her father, I implore you. Bend the knee and I will name you Warden of the North. Westeros knew peace and prosperity for years under the Targaryen rule with a Stark holding the North. Renew those vows and we will bring that peace to the realm again,” Daenerys sounds sincere but there is so much wrong with what she has said that Sansa cannot help herself. 

“You ask us not to judge you for your father’s crimes and yet you throw our father’s part in Robert’s Rebellion in our faces?” Sansa’s voice is steady but there are splashes of venom lapping at her words, “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I fail to see how that should work for us but not for you.”

The title is meant in condescension and Daenerys’ nostrils flare at Sansa again. She can tell the woman wishes it were Jon here by himself, she almost seems ill-equipped to deal with another woman. A woman who will match her beat for beat. She is used to men who will hesitate in the presence of a beautiful woman, Sansa knows the trick well. Sansa is no King though, she is a daughter of the North and even here on an island miles from her home she knows she is a wolf. 

Before Daenerys can retort Jon speaks quietly. 

“Even if I took that deal. If I bent the knee here today. It would not be me who you instate as Warden of the North,” Jon’s eyes turn to Sansa and suddenly her heart is pounding, he can’t do this now, “Sansa Stark is heir to the North. Our brother Bran holds the North now but he will choose abdication. That makes Sansa Stark the last surviving child of Ned and Catelyn Stark and the one you would name Wardenness. If it came to that.”

Jon stares at Sansa through his whole speech and she feels her throat closing up. Oh, how far they’ve come since the Battle of the Bastards. Nothing will rip them apart, she will not allow it. 

Tyrion interrupts her thoughts. 

“By your logic,” Tyrion’s voice comes out questioning, “Lady Sansa should have been named Queen in the North and your claim is illegitimate at best.”

Sansa doesn’t know what to say to this, still flustered from Jon’s proclamation, and she looks to Jon desperately because while his words were kind, they make their position impossible. Davos saves them yet again. 

“King Snow is a King of the people. He was chosen by his people, for his people. And Lady Sansa supports his claim, fully,” Davos says and his voice leaves no room for any questions. 

Sansa says a silent prayer. 

Daenerys speaks up, “Then what do you propose we do, My Lord? As your sister has so graciously pointed out we both seem to be paying for the sins of our fathers. Do you propose we overlook that?”

Jon hesitates and looks to Sansa, she nods, imperceptible to the Dragon Queen.

“You are right. You are not guilty of your father’s crimes, nor are we. But neither are we beholden to our ancestor’s vows or your ancestor’s rule.”

Jon’s words bring a grimace to Daenerys’ face and she seems to become thoughtful. Sansa can only guess what card she will play next. It seems never ending for the Mother of Dragons. 

“I must ask,” Daenerys speaks when she decides, “Did you not see the Dothraki when you arrived, the Unsullied? Or my three grown dragons?”

Ah, Sansa thinks. The intimidation is blatant and it is all the confirmation she needs, having them fly out had been deliberate. But there is no subtlety here, it is a threat ugly in its obviousness

“Do you mean to frighten us into submission?” Sansa asks with sick curiosity. 

She feels Jon’s eyes on her, he must think her out of her mind. But Sansa feels she knows what she is doing. Daenerys will never give them what they want unless they fix how things are going. They need to come to her on equal footing to gain her respect, she will never see them as more if they cower before her. But they first must show that they are not so easily scared, they will not bend. If she burns them for that, then at least they tried. 

“I hear you were not easily frightened by them, Lady Stark,” Daenerys’ amusement is back, “In fact I have heard much about the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sansa doesn’t distinguish that with a response, because yes, she imagines that Tyrion and Varys have told her everything they possibly could that might help Daenerys in this meeting. But neither of them have lain eyes on her for years, their information is outdated. They knew a wolf cub, not the predator she has grown into. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Jon speaks with more urgency now and tries to gain her attention with the title, “We sit here and squabble like children over petty disputes regarding the Iron Throne and Cersei Lannister–”

Daenerys interrupts Jon yet again, “I thought you liked these two, Lord Tyrion?”

Her voice is incensed now and Tyrion himself seems annoyed with both Jon and Sansa. 

“I do, Your Grace—”

“Really? Because since they have arrived they have refused to dignify me by calling me a Queen. They refuse to give up their weapons, disregard my ancestry, mock my dragons, and now Jon Snow calls me a child. These are not the Starks you told me of,” Daenerys is almost pouting now. 

(Sansa is taken aback that she knew about the weapons but had refrained from mentioning it thus far. How much coaxing from her advisors did that take?)

  
“I believe that he referred to us all as children, an unfortunate expression…” Tyrion trails off and turns his furious gaze on them again. 

“You need our help Daenerys,” Sansa says. 

Daenerys scoffs, “You have seen my dragons, my armies, if you think—”

Jon’s voice booms out, “Cersei is not the enemy we speak of Daenerys.”

There is a silence then and Davos continues into it, “If you wanted to take King’s Landing it would already be done, but clearly you hope to limit bloodshed there. An honourable pursuit Your Grace, but ultimately fruitless.”

“Then who is this enemy?” Daenerys asks, her curiosity peaked finally. 

“The dead are the enemy,” Jon says solemnly.

His words ring out, cavernous. 

“The dead?” Skepticism returns to Daenerys’ voice. 

“They march as we speak—”

“The dead march?” Tyrion joins in the jest and Sansa can take it no longer. She takes a large step forward. Some of the guards react but Sansa stands her ground and Daenerys waves her hand for them to stand down. 

“Do you think Jon a liar? You know him Lord Tyrion. Do you think he appears as a mad man, Daenerys?” Sansa’s voice edges on anger.

Both of them shake their heads, uncertain but not daring to interrupt her now. 

“Then why would we come all this way? The two of us together, for a mere joke? We knew the risk. That Your Grace would see it as treason for us to declare independence but we took that risk because we hoped that, as the woman wanting to rule the Seven Kingdoms, that you would see sense and realize that if you do not join in our fight, that all of us will be dead before Winter ends,” Sansa finishes and lets her words hang over them all. 

It takes a few moments before anyone moves and then Daenerys is rising from her throne. A wicked look warps her features, she is set on some unknowable course as she makes her way towards them. She stops some distance away and speaks. 

“I know pain, Lady Stark,” Daenerys stares Sansa down and then she loses herself in a memory, “We fled before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert Baratheon, your father's best friend. I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib. Not that it matters now, of course, we are forgiving the sins of our fathers, right? I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me, I don't remember all their names. I have been sold like a broodmare. I've been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods, not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea, any sea. They did for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and I will.”

Daenerys returns to herself, seeming to shrink after the grand spectacle of her speech. Sansa has to take a moment as well because her words were intoxicating and for one moment she understands how Daenerys has come to stand here now, what all those before have seen in her. And in that, she resolves to stop it from happening further. 

“You'll be ruling over a graveyard if we don't defeat the Night King,” Jon’s voice is tinged with sadness from behind her. 

Before Daenerys can sidetrack the conversation Sansa pulls the attention back to herself. 

“I am truly sorry,” Sansa says and pierces the woman’s eyes with her own, she has to make this stick, “And I empathize. Surely, since you say you have heard much of me. You know my own history. Held hostage for years while my family was slowly slaughtered. Married off to the man you call your Hand as a child. Only to escape with a man who only desired the same thing, to use me, for my name, and for my power, lusting after me in the process. I know the feeling. And then that man sold me, to a worse man than I hope anyone here has ever had the misfortune to meet. But I remember all their names Daenerys, I cannot forget them because only in their defeat, one by one, have I freed myself of those chains. I thought myself the last Stark for many years, luckily, I was wrong.”

She allows herself a small smile at Jon.

“And, now. I beg you. One woman to another, do not let this army lay waste to all of Westeros, out of pride, for then both your suffering and mine will have been for nought, we are not so different. Daenerys Targaryen,” Sansa finishes and the words taste bitter, all the way down. But she says them without shivering. 

Nobody speaks. Sansa sees something twinkling in Daenerys’ eyes. 

“You say you believe in yourself, and I understand why. But listen to me when I tell you I believe in Jon. As our King. Our people believe in him. He has bled for them, he took a knife in his heart for his people, he died—” Sansa cuts herself off at the noise Jon makes and they exchange a look. 

“What Sansa means is that if the dead march it won’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne,” Jon steers the conversation elsewhere. 

“If it doesn’t matter, then just bend the knee!” It is Tyrion’s voice that comes out so desperately. 

Sansa thinks she has said enough, it is time for Jon to speak. She steps back and lets him handle this. He squints his eyes.

He speaks to Tyrion, his voice showing his utter shock at the fact that they are still stuck on this, “Why would I do that?”

Jon turns himself to Daenerys, “I mean no offense Your Grace, but I don’t know you. As far as I can tell your claim rests entirely on your father’s name, and my—Ned Stark fought to overthrow the Mad King.”

Jon’s faltering on their father’s name, it pulls at Sansa’s heart. The mess of a man before her, still eaten up about that which Bran brought to him and there is nothing she can do to reach him now. 

Daenerys takes several moments to consider all of this, Sansa can see it all sinking into her slowly. Daenerys will only reply when she is ready. Sansa notices that the Queen’s eyes turn to herself, in curiosity, before she does. When she speaks none of that curiosity is in her voice though, no, only malice. 

“That’s fair,” There is a false calm as Daenerys takes a step nearer, “It’s also fair to point out that I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By declaring yourself King of the North, you are in open rebellion.”

Sansa’s shoulders sag minutely. They had been close, she thinks they truly had been. 

Then they are being interrupted and an attendant rushes in to tell Daenerys something. Sansa startles when she realizes it is no attendant but Lord Varys. As he exits his eyes meet her for the briefest of moments and she wipes her face of any expression. 

Daenerys returns to business, “My apologies. I must excuse myself with haste. You will have fresh food and baths brought to your chambers shortly. We will talk more later.”

It is like flipping a page, Sansa thinks, how quickly she changes her tune. 

Daenerys turns from them and then Sansa hears Jon call out. 

“Are we your prisoners then?”

Daenerys turns back for one second, “Not yet.”

But her teeth flash and when she turns away, Jon and Sansa find each other’s eyes. The truth of the matter passing between them.

* * *

Sansa sits at her room’s desk and writes a letter to Bran. It could only say little, she knew that any letter she wrote, no matter how covertly, would likely be read by someone in the castle. So she kept it light, and superficial, but attempted to infuse some meaning in it. To make her words take on a current that all was not well. That Bran needed to prepare for a possibility of them not returning. Not that she was giving up hope, far from it. But she wished that there was more she could do to prepare Bran, if they do leave him alone in the world. More than empty words on thin paper. He deserved more than that. 

Sansa gives up then and puts her letter away. She decides she will try again in the morning and instead sinks her head into hands on the desk and starts to massage her temples. All she wants is to sleep but she knows her thoughts are more likely to keep her up all night long, tossing and turning over the meeting with the Dragon Queen. She had taken a bath when she was brought to her rooms and eaten the meal with vigour after weeks on the road. But it had not brought her peace. 

She believed that given enough time, she could bring the Dragon Queen to their cause. Play on her sympathies, draw her to Sansa’s likeness. Make herself similar, similar but inferior to the mighty Daenerys Targaryen and she might stand a chance. They had to get her over the obsession with submission but she thinks it can be done. Well, maybe not indefinitely. If they could stave her off to get her dragons to come North for the Long Night then they could deal with her ire later on. 

But they would never kneel. Sansa knew that. Her and Jon. Bran too now, had suffered too much, had lost over and over again, to be brought to their knees now. If that ended their lives in Dragon fire then at least the people would see what Sansa already suspected lurked under Daenerys’ pale face of innocence, a desire for flames and destruction. 

It had flickered in her eyes and bubbled up from the depths of her bones. She had seen it when she provoked her. A necessary thing, she sees that now, because it showed her a glimpse of what the woman was capable of, she was not as controlled as Cersei had always been but she was perhaps more dangerous for it. Because while Cersei never attempted to hide her evils, Daenerys sees herself as sweet and docile, only doing what is necessary to bring about her desired outcome. And Sansa knows, this is a deadly combination in anyone, but especially in one who has been blessed with three dragons. 

Sansa’s eyes are still closed and her thoughts are reeling when she hears her door creak open, no knock preceding it with warning. She startles in her chair. 

“Sorry,” Jon says as he slips in and closes the door behind her. 

Sansa lets out a sigh of relief. All her people’s rooms were in one isolated wing. There had been guards, subtle, yet there all the same. But they remained outside in the main hallway. Their more private hallway had several doors with rooms for all of them. After that day's events they had all been exceedingly tired and retired to their respective rooms with few words passing between any of them. Not even a promise for better luck on the morrow. 

It had been hours and she had assumed Jon had fallen asleep. Not that she necessarily expected that he would come to talk to her. Not now, outside of Winterfell, surely their ritual wouldn’t resume here? And yet here he was. Looking slightly abashed and still standing just inside the door. 

Sansa rises and goes to the small table near the foot of her bed, “Well, come here.”

Jon joins her and she takes the rest of the wine that had come with her supper, for some reason there had been two goblets and Sansa grabs the unused one as well. Pouring them both a generous drink. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence and both sip from their drinks. The familiarity comforting to them in this unfamiliar place, the flames of the fire warming them with their wine and transporting them miles away, back to Winterfell. 

Sansa broaches the subject that they are both avoiding, “It went better than I might have expected.”

Jon drains his goblet and sets it down, shaking his head and letting out a small laugh, “If you say so.”

Sansa narrows her eyes and really looks at Jon. The day has worn on him. His hair is coming out of its bun and she can tell he did not take the bath their host so graciously offered. The bags under his eyes are becoming pronounced with the late hour and his cheeks have flushed with the wine. 

“What did you think would happen Jon?” Sansa asks, trying to keep the scathing note out of her voice. 

Jon shakes his head again, “Not this, not these games. I thought. I thought she would be—”

“Would be what? Jon?” Sansa’s voice raises, there are about a million ways Jon might have finished that sentence and none of them would do anything but further annoy her. 

Jon looks at her, a bit taken aback by her tone. 

“I thought she would be more mature,” Jon finishes. 

And that is not one of the millions of ways Sansa had expected him to finish it. 

“Oh,” She says, coming down, “No. She is not that. Much more like a child whining because her favourite toy was taken away.”   
  
Jon cracks a smile and it actually meets his eyes. That fact alone brings one to her face as well. Their eyes meet and Sansa has to look down to her lap, she shakes her head. 

“Does she think before she speaks? Half of what she says contradicts itself in the next breath. She wishes to not be bound by her father’s crimes but stakes her claim on his ‘unjust’ usurpation,” Jon sighs and shakes his head in disbelief. 

“She will require work,” Sansa says thoughtfully, “But I think I made progress with her.”

Jon tilts his head, “When you told her off or when you refused to call her a Queen? I must have missed that.”

And Sansa won’t take the scolding, “You refused to call her a Queen too. I did slip in a few Your Graces, by the way, as I noticed you did at the end. We’re in this for the long game.”

Jon rolls his eyes at that.

“Jon,” Sansa says and the tone of her voice draws his eyes instantly, “This is serious. She holds us prisoner on this island. She has allowed us our weapons, but they would overpower us easily. One wrong move and we will not survive this. We must tread carefully, from here on out.”

“Because you were so careful today,” Jon says, his tone clearly disproving.

And she boils. She thought they were past this. Thought they were past Jon not trusting her. 

“You don’t understand!” Sansa’s words explode out of her, shocking them both, “Everything I did today served a purpose. Daenerys sees a kinship with me now, even in the back of her mind, still unvoiced. I compared myself to her, made her see bits of herself in me. And we showed her that we are an actual force to be considered carefully. If she thinks us powerful but not too much so, just enough for allyship yet controllable, then we may get through this! It is critical you understand this Jon! Not being able to play the game is what got our father and brother killed!”

Sansa is breathing heavy and leaning across the table, her face is definitely flushed, she can feel it. And she holds Jon in her gaze. It is not the first time she has brought up father and Robb to him. But it is the first time she has done so since he learned the truth of his parentage. She sees the wound spill across his face in a flash but he recovers.

He leans into her, almost unconsciously. She could reach out and stroke his cheek, it would be as easy as breathing. In and out. 

“Sansa, I’m sorry,” Jon breathes out, “But you are nothing like that woman, lowering yourself like that. Making her think you the same…”

Jon’s voice trails off and he ducks his chin and when his eyes look up to hers they are full of fear. Sansa exhales. 

“I don’t think we are Jon. I need her to believe it though, if our plan is to work,” Sansa breathes with relief. 

Suddenly Jon clutches her hand across the table. 

“Seeing you go against her today,” Jon pauses, “It filled me with fear. She is nearly unstoppable with the dragons as her might. Especially here in her home. I will trust you in this, but please Sansa. I beg of you, do not forget that this is not Winterfell. You recognize the rest of us are in danger but think of yourself as well.”

Sansa’s throat closes up and she has to fight back tears that spring, unbidden. She only nods. 

Jon releases her and they both sink back into their seats. Her hand burns where he grasped hers. She wishes he hadn’t let it go. 

They sit there for a few minutes longer, not passing any words between them.

“Sansa,” Jon starts, with hesitation, “There is something else I think you should know.”

Sansa turns her head to him, bracing herself for some devastating revelation that she can’t even fathom at present. She tells him with her eyes, go on.

“Before we left. I talked to Bran,” Jon says and his eyes won’t meet hers, she knows he is about to tell her about what she interrupted, “He reminded me of what they have said about Targaryen blood.”

Jon stops talking and Sansa waits for him to continue. She feels glued to her seat, unable to draw breath until he finishes. His eyes are flitting all about the room and when they finally land on her he speaks again. 

“About Targaryen blood,” Jon says, “And dragons.”

His words cut to her bone and she feels her heart skip a beat as she connects the dots slowly. All the pieces slide into place. She thinks she may vomit. Because it doesn’t take much to decipher his meaning. Those with Targaryen blood, their blood called to dragons, but furthermore, it bonded them to their dragons. Bonded them for life, ensuring the dragon would be theirs in perpetuity (the word comes out in Daenerys’ mocking voice in her mind), they would remain loyal until death. Sansa parts her lips.

“No,” Her voice is barely above a whisper and she looks at Jon with horror. He can’t be serious. She wants to scream at Bran for the mere suggestion of it, not only the danger it will put Jon in, but the pain, mentally that he will have to endure. If they force him to embrace that side of himself, a side she knows he already detests. He doesn’t deserve that pain, “Jon, you can’t.”

Sansa looks at him and feels him slipping away from her, sees him, behind her eyes, falling from a dragon, being burnt to a crisp, any manner of painful death she can imagine is there in her vision. But when she looks at Jon she sees only resignation. 

“Sansa,” Jon’s voice is soft and persuasive, “It won’t happen for a long time yet. But if I get closer to her now, gain access to her dragons while we have the opportunity. If that helps us later…how can you deny us that advantage?”

And Sansa hates his logic because he is right, every word makes sense. She can’t voice that she would deny the North an advantage only to save him. She won’t allow him to risk himself. 

“Jon,” Sansa pleads now, “I can’t lose you. Not like that.”

“Sansa,” Jon’s voice is aching across the table but he feels further from her than ever before, “I have to–”

Sansa stands up then, needing time, “Just go, Jon. I’m tired.”

Jon looks at her sadly for a long while and she can tell he wishes to say more. Finally he rises and makes his way to the door. When he passes her she stops him with a hand on his chest. 

“I won’t disallow it,” Sansa says, reminiscent of Jon's own words about her choice to come with him to Dragonstone, and she doesn't meet his eye, “But I refuse to stand by and watch you get yourself killed.”

Jon raises his hand to the one she has placed on his chest. He squeezes it and draws it down. They both look to their now intertwined hands for one moment that stretches across time and then Jon drops her hand and he is receding to the door. With only one last look before he disappears into the hallway and leaves Sansa’s thoughts more tangled than ever before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there is part one! Feel free to chat with me about it in the comments. I've finished the first draft of part 2 (it is like 26k words lol so yeah) but I won't post it until I've got a fair bit of part 3 completed. 
> 
> Please talk to me about this in the comments because this fic is my baby and I will love you forever for any commentary on it!


	2. smolder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that I am blown away by your responses on the first part! You have exceeded all my expectations and it is so gratifying to see just as much excitement for this fic reflected in your response as I had in writing it!
> 
> Only heads up going forward is I have changed the timeline of events slightly but I think everything is still pretty clear!

**run away with my love**

_“One half of me is yours, the other half yours/Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours/And so all yours”_

William Shakespeare, _The Merchant of Venice,_ Act III Scene II

 **ii.** smolder

Things at Dragonstone are not improving. It is the first thought Jon has when he wakes up. Every day they spend here, playing a game with a woman who dances the line between tyrant and dictator, is a day they lose in preparation for the long night. The tension in his body won’t release until after they have fought that battle. (If he makes it out alive, the thought intrudes, never far from his mind). 

And while he had told Sansa he would trust her on this, that he would no longer question her judgement. Well, he didn’t know how much longer he could wait without some progress. Despite her insistence that this took time. Because the more time they spent here the more he feared for her. Daenerys seemed to despise her, even if Sansa thought she was building respect there, and Jon didn’t doubt that the loathing could be ebbed away. And yet he could tell that Daenerys would likely change her mind from one breath to the next if she thought it would benefit her. And that. Well he can’t let it happen.

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a restrained sigh. He slings his feet off the bed and starts to get ready for the day.

So much has happened in the last few days, Jon thinks as he moves about his chambers. Sansa and Jon had gone walking along the island, she had not broached the topic of Jon riding dragons and Jon kept his mouth closed about it. In truth, he liked it even less than her. It made him feel unclean. The thought of getting anywhere near one of the beasts. And it worried him too, because what he hadn’t told Sansa, what would make her even more fearful than she already was, was that Bran had warned him that Daenerys herself might be able to sense Jon’s blood, or that she would sense it if her dragon’s did at least. It sent a chill through him because while he had felt nothing for her as of yet, the thought of her calling to the likeness, the familial tie between them, it disturbed him. (And it hadn’t gone unnoticed to him that while Sansa spins her web to make Daenerys see a parallel between the two of them, the one who is actually more like the Dragon Queen stands right at Sansa’s side, a Targaryen hidden in plain sight).

As Jon and Sansa had walked around the island it had become growingly apparent to both of them how dire the situation for them was, there was no leaving this island unless Daenerys allowed them to, they had retained their weapons but their boats were in a location unknown to either of them. They had been speaking of what was likely to happen if they broached the subject of having them returned when Tyrion approached. 

“My Lady, Your Grace,” Tyrion said as he drew nearer, it seemed that the prior events had made him more deferential in their presence, a small triumph, “I see you are making the most of your time here on the island.”

Jon just stared at Tyrion, in disbelief. He acted as if their visit was a mere holiday. But before his feelings on the matter could be said, Sansa turned on her heel and kept walking along the coast, she spoke over her shoulder. 

“Ah yes, Lord Tyrion,” Her voice carried, “How lovely for us to remain here while our homeland faces the threat of undead invaders. I’m sure our time here as prisoners is being put to good use.”

Jon and Tyrion shared a brief stare as Jon made to follow Sansa. He had agreed that politics were her forte, and she had been married to the man for god's sake. But he hoped she knew what she was doing. 

“Prisoners? I would hardly say that Lady Stark,” Tyrion said with a nervous laugh, “Although it doesn’t surprise me that you may confuse the situation after all you have been through.”

Jon stiffened at that and Sansa halted suddenly. Turned swiftly back to Tyrion and said very slowly, “Do not presume to speak of my past, Lord Tyrion, not when you and your family featured so heavily in it.”

Tyrion clearly realized his mistake and he remained silent at Sansa’s scolding.

Jon decided it would be best if he stepped in while they both remained in their own thoughts. 

“Does your Queen still dwell on the Greyjoy attack?” Jon asked.

It wasn’t his best attempt at easing the tension as of course it was a touchy subject. It had preoccupied Daenerys since she found out about it and he imagined it was likely why they had seen little of her since. Part of him couldn’t blame her for fixating on this loss. Part of him wanted to shake her and say these petty squabbles would be obsolete in a few short months if they didn’t act now. 

Tyrion considered his words carefully, clearly not sure how much he should say to them. 

“Yes, we must consider the best route for retaliation. War takes time, you know this of course,” Tyrion said while still trying to steal a look at Sansa who faced the water, ignoring the both of them. 

Jon was readying a reply when Sansa spoke, not tearing her eyes from the crashing waves below. 

“Yet you bring another war to Westeros’ shore quite willingly,” Sansa said. 

That gives Tyrion pause and Jon allows this silence to stay its course.

“I can see why it would look like that from your perspective Lady Sansa,” Tyrion took a hesitant step towards where she stood and spoke further, “However, Daenerys is the Queen the realm needs. You above anyone else must come understand that. You have more reason than most to hate my sister.”

Sansa didn’t hesitate, “Your sister and your Queen both dispute our claim to Northern Independence. To me they are the same as far as our Kingdom goes. But that is of little concern at present as our true enemy comes from beyond the wall.”

Tyrion pursed his lips. 

“I think, My Lady, that maybe you should think carefully before saying such things to the Hand of the future Queen of Westeros. But I will keep it between us,” Tyrion looked to Jon and then continued, “And I implore you, please think. Daenerys could’ve come to Westeros ages ago but she stayed in Essos to help many people who needed her there. She doesn’t want war, she wants her throne.”

Jon and Sansa had exchanged a long look at that. It was something they had discussed before, back at Winterfell. The rumours from Essos were mixed at best. They said Daenerys regarded herself as a saviour but did little for the infrastructure there, that many had suffered under her rule. And then worse, she had left with a tenuous peace at best, not fixing the mess she had made in the first place. 

“So you only want to give Westeros peace?” Sansa asked with skepticism. 

Tyrion sighed, “I think maybe you would both benefit to talking to some more people here on the island. Hear their testimonies about their Queen. They may surprise you yet.”

Sansa had nodded slowly, “We’ll take it under advisement. Thank you, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion had beamed a bit then, clearly glad to be back in her good graces.

“I cannot make Daenerys accept Northern Independence nor would I want to advise it, as her Hand, but is there anything I can help you with while you remain here?” Tyrion had asked.

Another look had gone between Jon and Sansa and they had both spoken, with a bit of a fervor about the Dragonglass. About being allowed to mine it. Tyrion had received their request with confusion but had told them he would petition Daenerys to allow it and had left them there, still on the cliff. 

Sansa framed her arms around herself and shivered in the winds. Jon stepped towards her. 

“Do you want my cloak?” Jon asked, already half unfastening his own. 

Sansa had looked to him graciously and looked around before nodding in acceptance, “Thank you. I was freezing the entire time but I didn’t want to say anything with Tyrion here.”

Jon only shook his head at her stubborn attitude, “He believes in her.”

Sansa looked put down at that, “I realize that and it worries me. All those around her are fiercely devout. It makes my job more difficult.”

Jon had rubbed his hand down her arm, “Hopefully we will get the dragonglass though.”

Sansa looked to his hand with an unreadable expression but Jon had withdrawn it, he seemed to be incapable of reigning in his body when he was around her. 

“We’ll see,” Sansa said and looked back to the water, “We shall see what is to come.”

As the memory finishes washing over Jon he heads to his door. He is ready for the day now and whatever difficulties it is sure to pose them. Since their talk with Tyrion a few days ago, the biggest occurrence of note to happen was Daenerys finding Jon on the steps outside the castle and coming to speak to him alone. She had agreed to let them mine the dragonglass and Jon had balanced showing gratitude while not allowing his expression to show just how much she might be giving them. 

The conversation had been terse. At least from Jon’s point of view. He suspected that it had taken a lot of convincing on Tyrion’s side to get her to concede to this. And the current between the two of them had unnerved Jon. He disliked being alone with the woman and he hoped not to repeat the act much going forward. It put him on guard and raised his hackles, he felt unable to relax for hours after it had passed. 

She had drone on and on about her dragons, about her birthright, about how she only wanted to help Westeros. In truth Jon had not been paying much attention, not as much as he probably should given the circumstances. What had distressed him the most though was that Daenerys seemed, at times, to draw near to him, to consider him and lock him in her gaze. For all her faults, she could be captivating, but not in a comforting way. He couldn’t tell what he saw in her violet eyes but it definitely knocked him off balance. Because the look in her eyes was almost one of possession. He wasn’t sure that it wasn’t just how she regarded everyone, believing herself divine and all those around her the subjects to her will. But if it was something more, if it was the dragon blood drawing her to him, then it made him feel even more nervous. 

(On the other hand he hadn’t disregarded the fact that Sansa may be right, that Daenerys may be considering taking him to bed in order to manipulate him. But Jon had reflected on his limited experience on that front. Ygritte had been quite forward and altogether different in her approach. Melisandre had as well and he had rebuffed her immediately. But if Daenerys wanted to toy with him and play games, well he would not stop her outright, lest he draw her ire, but she would find no reciprocation on his behalf).

He had told Sansa of their meeting right after it happened and once again an unreadable expression crossed her face as it had on the cliffs, when his hand clutched at her arm. She had remained silent before advising him to continue to be on his guard but she suspected that all of it was of little consequence yet. And that as long as Jon remained cordial without leading her on, her own ideas would fade, if they existed at all. But Sansa had seemed closed off through the rest of their conversation and Jon couldn’t pinpoint the reason why. 

Just as he considered this further he made it to the room their group had been taking meals in. Davos, Brienne, and Sansa already had finished eating and are talking amongst themselves. Jon joins them quickly and helps himself to a bowl of the porridge and a piece of bread. 

“Lady Sansa was just telling us about the day's events, Your Grace,” Brienne says as Jon continues to shovel the food in. 

He swallows and replies, “Events?”

Sansa hadn’t mentioned anything when they last spoke yesterday. He assumed the rest of the men would start mining the dragonglass as soon as possible and they all would endure another day of attempting to find something to do while Daenerys kept them at her mercy. His eyes flicker to Sansa who is now looking slightly deceptive, it is not a look that he regularly sees her wear in his presence, at least not directed towards him.

He sees another look exchanged between Davos and Brienne, one that hints at worry. Are they worrying about how he will react to whatever it is that they have to tell him? It is Sansa who’s voice breaks the tension.

“I have requested that Daenerys and I go into the caves before the mining begins to see what we are working with,” Sansa says conversationally and reaches for another piece of bread as if what she has said is nothing.

Jon drops his own half eaten slice in his bowl of porridge.

“It’s too dangerous,” Jon’s voice is low and he speaks to her directly. 

“Your Grace,” Davos begins, “It will only be the two of them, there is nothing to fear.”

But Jon was reminded of how being alone with the Queen felt suffocating, it was barely enough for him to put up with it but he wouldn’t put Sansa in the same position. 

“I can do it instead,” Jon says and he sees Sansa’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

“I thought we were in agreement Jon?” Sansa’s voice is commanding now.

And yes, they had been. Jon would allow her to handle Daenerys and she would allow him to consider the dragons. But this was unnecessarily risky, to go alone into a cave with the woman who hoped to have them submit to her?

“I must do this Jon, I have to work on building her trust, it will give us time alone that is much needed. It will expedite things which is what we need,” Sansa speaks quickly, eyes darting around to ensure they aren’t overheard by prying ears. 

Jon sets his lips in a firm line. He doesn’t like it. He hates the mere thought of it. But he won’t challenge Sansa on it any further. He nods.

He sees both Brienne and Davos let out noticeable sighs of relief. He doesn’t know what is up with the two of them or what they are thinking but it bothers him a bit, do they think him that unstable?

Sansa lets out a bit of a laugh then, “Besides Jon, if she did attack me… Well I am quite a bit taller than her.”  
  
A laugh passes between the four of them and even Jon joins in. She’s right, he knows this. Neither of them have combat training but her physicality alone would give Sansa an advantage. All too quick Jon realizes that he is thinking about Sansa’s physicality and his laugh cuts off. Only Davos seems to notice the abrupt change and he raises an eyebrow at Jon but doesn’t comment.

Jon finishes his breakfast and then they all rise to make their way towards the beaches. Sansa leads the way and as Jon follows her, he is struck by the thought that she is more of a Queen than Daenerys could ever hope to be.

* * *

Sansa steps onto the beach and sees that Daenerys and her party are already waiting for them over by the entrance to the caves. She is surprised. The Dragon Queen is not a woman who waits for many and she wouldn’t put it above her to take it as a slight now that they arrived after her. So, instead of delaying any longer, Sansa straightens her back and makes purposeful strides to quickly close the difference between them. 

She had requested to examine the caves with Daenerys even though it was largely unnecessary. They knew there would be ample dragonglass, but she hoped that maybe, away from her advisors and in the dark, she could soften the Dragon Queen, and help to bring her to their side of the matter.

Sansa stops just in front of the Queen and she hears Jon, Davos, and Brienne stop a few steps behind her. They are all here, but she had made it clear she wished to visit the caves alone with Daenerys. She had half expected Daenerys to forego this suggestion and instead have guards with her ready and waiting. But only Tyrion and Missandei stand with her at the moment. 

“Lady Sansa and Lord Snow,” Daenerys says, still neglecting Jon’s honorific. But that’s okay, Sansa thinks, they haven’t honoured her either. 

Sansa bows her head to Daenerys to avoid having to return the gesture. She won’t call her Your Grace deferentially as she wishes, not right after she has called Jon a Lord. But she won’t either call Daenerys only a Lady. She thinks mildly that Daenerys has never been a Lady. She went from being a girl, to a Khaleesi, to a Queen. But never a Lady. A peculiar fact that Sansa thought now might give her some sort of insight into the Queen’s behaviour. 

As Sansa draws a breath to speak she notices that Daenerys is eyeing Jon, and the glint that is in her eyes is less than innocent. She turns her head minutely and sees that Jon is oblivious, he is instead looking to Tyrion, who looks to his Queen. But Daenerys doesn’t waver. And Sansa knows, in her gut, that Jon’s observation from the other day is true. She has seen the signs before. Daenerys is setting her sights on Jon and the fact makes Sansa cringe internally. Jon, for the time being, shows no interest. But as time passes can she depend on him to never notice the affections that could develop? Daenerys is stunning, any man would…

Sansa stops herself. Jon is not any man. Jon is Jon, and if they want to get through this she will have to trust him. Daenerys’ thoughts on the matter be damned.

She speaks instead, “Thank you for meeting with us. Are you ready to proceed to the caves now?”

Daenerys tears her gaze from Jon and looks at Sansa with an actual shred of warmth in her eyes. She hadn’t been wrong, she had managed to intrigue Daenerys at the very least, now she must keep that interest and push things further along if they have any hopes at all. Daenerys’ cheeks lift up into a small smile.

“Yes of course, lead the way,” Daenerys says and starts to follow Sansa up the beach and then she calls, for all of them to hear, “As long as you're sure your brother wishes to stay behind?”

Sansa turns her head but doesn’t stop her stride. She plasters on an expression of innocence and merely quirks and eyebrow at Daenerys, pretending not to realize what Daenerys really wants. Daenerys catches Jon’s eye and she can’t see it so she wonders what look she is giving him. Jon, for his part, looks at her with no expression and then his eyes flash to Sansa’s for only half a second and his mouth stops itself from finding a smile. 

Sansa turns back and then says quieter. so only Daenerys hears her, “I think maybe we could do with a little girl time, don’t you?”

Daenerys doesn’t respond but they continue to make their way towards the caves and then eventually inside the mouth. They had torches placed at the entrance and they both grab one as they start to traverse the caves. It is not an activity that Sansa is at all familiar with but the ground is relatively flat and they walk through them for a few minutes before Daenerys speaks. Sansa assumed, rightly, that it was best to let Daenerys begin the conversation. 

“Does this look suitable for your purposes?” Daenerys asks and she is only half a step behind Sansa, she moves her torch so the light reflects on all the deposits of dragonglass. 

“More than we could ever need, I think. We’ve sent for more men to come and help with the extraction, they should be arriving within three or four days I think,” Sansa says conversationally, finding it easier, as she thought it would be, now that they are alone. 

“Yet you still think that you will not defeat them without me?” Daenerys asks, “Without my armies and my dragons?”

Sansa doesn’t miss how the first one that Daenerys listed was herself, not her armies or dragons, but her. She is quick to overestimate the power she holds within herself, but Sansa lets it pass. Stores the information away for later. (And ignores the fact that Daenerys knows fully well that she is their way to get the dragonglass as well, any way you slice it her compliance is necessary).

Sansa sighs, trying to imbue a sense of vulnerability, “I fear that it would be unlikely we will succeed. Especially without the dragons.”

“Yet you refuse to kneel,” Daenerys says this speculatively, as if it is not holding the weight of a thousand issues between their two agendas. 

Sansa stops walking, in the middle of a vast cavern now. 

“You say you have heard my own story Daenerys, as I have yours. Do you not think, given the similarities, that I would find it more than displeasing to think about giving someone that power over me again? To kneel to someone who I hardly know? Not to mention the suffering the North has endured since my father was killed,” Sansa looks into Daenerys’ eyes.

It is dark in the cave, the fire torches their only source of light and she sees them reflect in Daenerys’ eyes. She seems to truly consider what Sansa is saying. 

“Yet you allowed Jon to be King?” Daenerys sounds genuinely curious.

It is about the last thing Sansa expected Daenerys to say. But she shouldn’t be surprised. The fact had likely caught her attention when Tyrion brought it to everyone’s mind in the throne room that first day.

“Jon is my brother,” Sansa says simply, hoping to close the subject. Talking too closely about Jon’s place in their family puts everyone at risk. 

Daenerys considers her a moment longer then she starts to walk, taking the lead.  
  
“I know something of brothers who think they can overpower their sisters. Force them to do things they don’t want to,” Daenerys says, her voice taking on a melodious note.

“Jon isn’t like that,” Sansa says, suddenly defensive. 

There had been rumours of the mad boy King Viserys. Rumours of what he had done to Daenerys, about his perversions. For sure he sold her to the Dothraki. For one absurd moment Sansa fears that Daenerys can read the sins on Sansa’s own heart, and sees some sameness between Sansa and Viserys. But it passes, the notion is just that, absurd.

“For now,” Daenerys muses and looks back for a moment and catches her eye, “We shall see. All I’m saying is that men are fickle. They can change, Jon may change. Crowns do strange things to people.”

Sansa thinks they are treading into dangerous territory. She doesn’t believe for a second that Jon will go on to do any of the things that Daenerys proposes. But her words actually instead speak to Daenerys’ own faults, her crown will corrupt her. Sansa sees that and it worries her, but the more pressing matter is assuring her allyship. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa starts to gain some respect and she sees Daenerys’ ears prick but she keeps walking, “The North would be a strong ally to your crown. We could defeat the Night King together and then take back your throne from Cersei. We can all win, we do not have to submit to be steadfast at your side.”

Daenerys stops them, they have come to another vast cavern. 

“There are seven kingdoms Sansa,” Daenerys says, and there is a note of finality that frustrates her to no end. Is this woman truly mad with the thought of power?

Then Sansa’s light catches something on the wall. She shines it higher and then lets out a little gasp.

“Daenerys, look,” Sansa’s voice is a whisper. She suddenly feels very small. Because on the wall are cave drawings, carved into stone. They have been here for thousands of years she thinks. The markings resemble those of the children of the forest. Sansa thinks of Bran, of his words, his warnings about Jon and herself. Thinks about the ancient magic in her baby brother’s blood and how it dates back to the time of these paintings. Maybe Bran was right, maybe her and Jon have more important roles to play than she realizes. 

Both women stand in awe for a few stunned moments. 

“The children of the forest…” Sansa’s voice trails off. 

“They were right here, standing where we are now. Before there were Targaryens or Starks. Before there were Lannisters. Maybe before there were men.”

Sansa throws the flame higher and then she shakes her head. 

“No,” Sansa breathes, letting the history wash over her, “They were here together.”

The picture tells them all they need to know, the depictions stand side by side. 

Daenerys laughs softly and the spell between the two of them breaks, “Fighting I presume?”

Sansa’s nostrils flare. This woman doesn’t even want to believe in peace, she only sees submission and domination. The only options available apparently. 

“Look,” Sansa points and her voice is harsher than before, “They fought together against a common enemy.”

Daenerys looks at the image and then looks skeptically towards Sansa.  
  
“I suppose you will say that it is a sign. That it is what we are meant to do now?” Daenerys’ voice comes out dripping with ridicule. 

Sansa drops her torch down and faces Daenerys. Her patience is wearing thin with every passing moment. 

“Don’t you see?” Sansa’s voice reaches desperation, “We will all die. The enemy is real. It has always been real.”

Sansa gestures wildly to the images behind them. 

“I hate Cersei more than anyone in Westeros, but I can put that aside to recognize the greatest threat Westeros will ever face! Can you not do the same? I am begging you Daenerys,” Sansa hates that she lowers herself to this, but if it will get them the help they need she won’t regret it.

Daenerys takes a step towards Sansa and she speaks with a calmness that Sansa senses hides a fiery rage underneath. 

“We will fight together Sansa. Stark and Targaryen. When your King bends the knee,” Daenerys spits the last three words out. 

Sansa lets out a strangled sigh, “You don’t understand Daenerys. It matters not what Jon does, the people of the North won’t bend, they won’t accept a Southern ruler after all they have endured in the past.”

Daenerys merely looks confused, “They will if their King does. They chose him to lead them, do they not then choose to abide by his decisions, without question?”

Sansa remains silent because it is a difference of ideology that separates them now. Daenerys does not understand what it means to be a ruler of the people, Sansa doubts she ever has. You act in their best interest but you also must know what those interests are, you cannot impose your own will on them. If Daenerys fails to see that, there will be little to do that she can change her mind. 

“Ask Jon this,” Daenerys says, “Is their survival not more important than his pride?”

Sansa bites back, “Jon’s pride has never been an issue.”

“Your own then?” Daenerys strikes and her blow lands a little too close to home.

Sansa’s cheeks flush immediately. Jon would never betray their people, she believes that. But she knows that for this war, if it were up to him alone, there is a chance he would bend the knee. If it wasn’t for her influence, he may be swayed. May even believe that it is in their best interest. But Sansa knows she knows better, at least on this. She won’t allow it to happen. And for once Daenerys has caught her. 

Sansa calms herself and then says serenely, “We wish for the same things Daenerys. I only hope that you see that before it is too late.”

Sansa then starts to stride towards the exit of the cave. Her words were chosen to make Daenerys think. They were not an explicit threat, no, but they hint that her choices here and now will be the end of her. And Daenerys, she thinks, fears only one thing more than losing her power. It is losing her life. 

Neither of them speak on the way back out to the beach. 

* * *

Jon is pacing, and he has been for some twenty minutes. He had been fine when Sansa and Daenerys had left, he really had been. But then Lord Varys had come walking out to the beach and conferred with Tyrion, who didn’t think secrecy was exactly important considering the information was going to be known all over the realm soon enough.

Daenerys had lost the Reach. So now Jon _is_ worried. Worried because he is almost certain that any work Sansa has done in the caves is about to be undone as soon as they emerge and Daenerys finds out that she is losing this war even worse than she was previously. He doesn’t think she will take it well at all, it is more likely to send her careening out of control. 

So he paces. Davos watches him keenly (and Jon wishes the old man would just say what is on his mind) while Brienne watches the mouth of the cave, eager for Sansa to return. What feels like ages later, Brienne speaks softly. 

“Your Grace,” she says.

And Jon’s head turns, along with those of Tyrion, Varys and Missandei. Sansa and Danerys are coming right towards them. As they get closer Jon can sense an undercurrent of tension. He feels that he has become so attuned to Sansa since she returned to him and he picks up on it right away. Maybe things didn’t go quite the way she hoped.

The two of them stop a few feet from their group. 

“Lord Varys?” Daenerys’ voice is puzzled, not yet a raging inferno. Jon savours the final moments of peace, “What is it?”

Jon’s eyes meet Sansa’s in the time it takes for Daenerys’ advisors to ready themselves for the news they have to bring their already unstable Queen. It can only be two seconds but a wealth of information passes between them. From the crease in her brows to the way her eyes flash to Daenerys and the rigidity of her spine, Jon knows not all has gone to plan in the caves. And Jon lets out a tiny sigh at it, it had been a long shot and even if it had gone well the incoming news will negate their attempt, he is sure. 

And Jon lets Sansa know from the crinkles in the corner of his eyes and the set of his jaw that the Queen won’t be happy with what is about to be told to her. Sansa’s eyes flash to Varys in question and Jon just nods, imperceptible. Letting her know that her assumption is correct, the news is bad, dire even. And more so for them, for their precarious position on a rock in the middle of the sea where their fate rests on the mood of a woman as easily swung as her dragons.

Jon doesn’t know when they developed this sense of each other. This secret language that flows between them that nobody else can translate. Was it the first moment in Winterfell’s courtyard? Jon had thought Sansa a ghost at the time, first seeing Ygritte, and then she transformed in a second before his eyes, cascading into the woman who was once his less favoured sister. Or maybe it had been that night, sharing laughs over soup, relearning the shape of each other’s words and the strokes of the stories of their lives since they had last parted. Perhaps when she had clutched to Jon’s hand like a lifeline and convinced him to fight, after he thought he could fight no more, fight for Winterfell. Fight for Rickon. Fight for _her._

The language had been developing when Lord Glover had looked her in the eye and said that House Stark is dead, when Lady Mormont had blamed her for the marriages she had been forced into. Callousness. And Jon had seen how the slights affected her then, seen how the mask slipped into place, and would watch it get peeled back later on, when they were alone. Only when they were fully alone. 

And he knows, without a doubt. That they’d become fluent by the time they went to fight Ramsay Bolton. More said in their silences the night before when they had fought, than in their actual words. She’d told him she wouldn’t live, if they lost. And Jon hadn’t faltered then, he knew he wouldn’t live in a world without her, not after everything. He had only told Melisandre the truth. And when Sansa had come riding over that hill the next day, all he had seen was flaming red hair, his own personal heroine. Across the battlefield, he knew in his bones that she saw him too, bloody, bruised, and battered, their looks passing more than words ever could. Even separated by that cavernous space. 

It had all amounted to this. Now they knew what the other was thinking and could tell each other in mere seconds, surrounded by others. Without passing a word between them. Why was this so easy for them when sometimes Jon felt Sansa was nothing but unfathomable? As if they walked too close to the edge of the cliff they teetered on they would fall off and lose it all. Jon blinks then, shakes himself and Sansa’s gaze has turned concerned. Jon feels Davos’ gaze burning into the back of his head and he comes back to his senses. 

“We took Casterly Rock,” Tyrion is saying and Jon draws his attention back to the matter at hand. 

Tyrion’s voice is hedging, hesitation drips into every word. Daenerys furrows her brow, she looks suspicious, more than anything else. And it strikes Jon that she doesn’t trust him, doesn’t trust her own Hand. Seven hells, how would they ever get her to trust them?

“That’s very good to hear?” Daenerys’ voice is clipped and she flashes her eyes between Varys, Tyrion, and Missandei, looking for a break in the three of them, “Isn’t it?”

Her voice goes up, and she sounds nervous, underneath the suspicion. Sansa takes a small step and comes to stand beside Jon. 

“Your Grace,” Varys says, his voice reverent.

And he explains. He explains it how he had told Jon but he tries to do it more gently, he doesn’t just state facts, he tries to be careful. But in the end it all comes out, how the Lannisters tricked them, Casterly Rock was empty and they had taken the Reach, taken Highgarden while they had been distracted. It was all very clever, Jon had to admit, on the part of the Lannisters. 

Jon meets Sansa’s eyes once during all this and he sees the same worries reflected in her blue eyes. She wonders the same things. What will this mean for them going forward? And they both come to a silent agreement that for the moment it is best if they stay well out of it, let them work on this themselves. 

To Daenerys’ credit she doesn’t interrupt the entire time that Varys is speaking but Jon can feel the blood rising in her and can feel her body filling with tension, filling with rage. And when Varys completes his story, the silence is deafening. Jon can nearly hear Daenerys’ blood pounding in his own ears. 

“And you all let me look at cave drawings while sitting out here with this knowledge?” Her voice is barely restrained and they almost all cringe away from it. 

When nobody answers her she closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them she turns her heel and strides away.

“Unbelievable.”

As if by unanimous agreement they all begin to follow her back to the castle. Jon hangs back with Sansa and they fall in line even behind Davos and Brienne. Jon hears Davos call.

“You’ll want to discuss this amongst yourselves,” he says, diplomatic as ever. 

And Daenerys’ piping hot retort, “You will stay.”

This causes Jon and Sansa to exchange another heavy look and Jon knows he literally rolls his eyes, thanking the gods that everyone is too distracted to see this. But gods, the woman is having a temper tantrum. 

Sansa tugs at Jon’s sleeve and says under her breath, “This is dangerous Jon.”  
  
Jon looks helplessly at her, “We don’t have any choice.”

“All my allies are gone, they’ve been taken from me while I’ve been sitting here on this island,” Daenerys’ voice startles them both but they realize she is paying them no mind. 

“I take it that means you didn’t make the headway you hoped in the caves,” Jon says out the side of his mouth.

One look at Sansa and he knows his suspicions are correct, she almost hangs her head. 

“You still have the largest armies,” Tyrion is trying in a placating voice.

“Who won’t be able to eat because Cersei has taken all the food from the Reach,” Daenerys bites back immediately. 

Sansa grabs at his arm again, they are still unnoticed, “Actually some headway _was_ being made but I think it will be completely unsalvageable given the turn of events.”

Her voice is coming out in seething whispers and while Jon knows it is not him she rages at he can’t help but be defensive, he didn’t bring this on them. 

“Call Grey Worm , the Unsullied and all the Dothraki back, we still have enough ships to bring them to shore, commit to a blockade of King’s Landing. We have a plan, it is still the right plan,” Tyrion is practically begging. 

Jon’s eyes dart to the scene in front of them. They don’t have time to go to King’s Landing now. He will chain her to this island if it prevents her from this foolishness. He hates Tyrion for even suggesting it. 

Daenerys reels on them all, turning around only halfway back to the castle. Jon and Sansa spring a foot apart. 

“The right plan? Your strategy has lost us, Dorne, the Iron Islands and The Reach,” Jon swears he sees flames dancing in Daenerys’ eyes when she says this, even from a distance. 

Tyrion throws his hands up, “Perhaps I have underestimated our enemies.” 

“Our enemies? You mean your family? Perhaps you don’t want to hurt them after all?” Daenerys throws the accusation at him and it splatters to the ground, out in the open for all of them to absorb. 

Jon can’t believe that as a Queen she would throw out such hostilities to her Hand in front of those she considers potential enemies who are in ‘open rebellion’. It is dangerous, reckless and the perfect thing for them to exploit if they so wished. Jon is no master politician, no master of the game of thrones, no, but any fool could see this. So why can’t she?

Jon glances at Sansa and he sees her gears are turning, her mind is reeling at Daenerys’ misstep. He can only imagine the things she is thinking about. Putting all those years in King’s Landing to work right now, running overtime to try and figure out if this is salvageable for them. Suddenly in that moment it is crystal clear. 

Because in that moment he loves her, this woman who in the midst of chaos stands resolutely looking for something to protect them, with her mind, her beautiful mind that is only ever outshone by the face that protects it. Before Jon can reprimand himself, before he can disavow the truth he knows in his heart, there is a great roar. 

And the dragons are flying far off in the distance, over the water. They all watch them, and Jon gets an overwhelming feeling of dread in his stomach. A plan hatches deep in the back of his mind and he can’t even see its scope but something is there and it causes a slick wet bead of sweat to slide right down his spine. 

When they all turn back from the dragons he sees a sick sort of glee painted on Daenerys’ face. 

“Enough with the clever plans, I have three large dragons. I’m going to fly them to the Red Keep,” Daenerys says it with triumph.

And it only makes Jon think of Joffrey Baratheon and every story of infantile pleasure pursuits Sansa has ever told him about. One look at her assures him she is seeing the same thing, years later on a new ruler. 

“We’ve discussed this,” Tyrion sighs. 

“My enemies are in the Red Keep. What kind of Queen am I if I’m not willing to risk my life to fight them?” Daenerys asks as if she wants an honest answer and it is why Jon is not surprised that Sansa is the one who finally decides to interject on this conversation that should be private. 

“One who values intelligence and patience over pride and instant gratification,” Sansa’s voice rings out and Jon half expects Daenerys to step forward and slap her based on the look that flashes across her face. Jon even tenses in anticipation. But then her expression clears. 

“What do you think I should do?” She doesn’t address Sansa though, no, Daenerys turns her gaze to Jon. 

She catches him off guard and he stutters, “I would never presume… ”

“I’m at war, I’m losing, what do you think i should do?” And Jon is surprised again by how genuine she is, she is actually seeking his advice in this.

It makes no sense, not when she is surrounded by advisors and anyone worth anything knows Sansa is better equipped than him to answer such questions. And Jon’s stomach drops again because he knows with no doubt that even if Daenerys doesn’t know it yet, she feels something for him and it is why, despite it all she trusts him now in this. Well, all he can do is use that to his advantage, so he proceeds carefully.

“I never thought Dragons would exist again, no one did. The people who follow you, know that you made something impossible happen. Maybe that helps them believe that you can make other impossible things happen. Build a world that is different than the shit one they’ve always known. But if you use them to melt castles and burn cities. You’re not different, you’re just more of the same,” Jon says this slowly, pausing in places and letting the words sink in. 

He hopes it is the right balance of praise and caution. Sansa has always been better at such things, but he manages to check on her expression from the corner of his eye and she seems pleased. 

Daenerys considers him a long while, “You suggest I let this go unanswered?”

Jon doesn’t know how to answer that one. He wishes he could just make her see, that none of this matters. 

“If you pledge to help us fight in the North, we will bring our armies South to help you take back the Reach,” It is Sansa again and Jon takes a minute to process her words but she isn’t even done, “We can do it without the dragons. Then we go North. Together.”

Daenerys turns to Sansa, her expression turns slightly amused, “Your sign?”

It means nothing to Jon but Sansa nods, completely seriously. 

“Sansa, we can’t–” Jon starts. 

Sansa turns to him, “We have time Jon.”

Her voice is whispered though he doubts that anyone misses the words. But she doesn’t know if that is the truth. They have no idea when the Night King will make it and yet she commits them to more time in the South? Then he looks to her eyes and sees the truth. This could be how they get Daenerys to come North, and it may be their one chance. So, he closes his mouth and nods. Daenerys has let them see too much fighting between her own people, best to not fall prey to the same mistake now. Sansa turns her head back to Daenerys but he doesn’t miss her breath of relief. 

Everyone considers Daenerys now. On Jon’s own face, as well as Sansa, Brienne, and Davos’ he sees hope, a sliver that had been extinguished for ages at this point. On Missandei’s only impassivity but maybe some sort of surprise as well? Tyrion looks fearful but not opposed to Sansa’s proposition. And Varys, Jon is unsure anyone else sees it, they’re all too intent on Daenerys. But Varys is openly studying Sansa, as if his entire world view is shifting in that very moment. Jon knows not what it means but he knows it’s important so he continues to watch it as Varys seems to see Sansa Stark for the first time. 

“We have a deal. Lady Stark,” Daenerys says slowly, “I will help you fight in the North if you help me take back the Reach. We will put the issue of Northern Independence aside until these two things have passed.”

Everyone seems to let out a breath at once, but then Daenerys continues on. 

“But first,” Daenerys’ expression remains neutral, “I wish to see the enemy I am committing to help you fight.”

For the second time that day the silence that descends deafens them. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa says, breaking the silence and sliding into deference, “I don’t understand–”

“She wants to _see_ Sansa,” Because Jon had understood in an instant and so he clarifies it for everyone. 

His eyes meet Daenerys’ this time and he sees something he fears there, only power, always the need for more power. 

“We’ll take my dragons, we can leave tomorrow, we can be back within a day if we ride fast,” Daenerys says simply. 

“We?” Sansa asks and Jon hates the way her voice quivers, this isn’t at all what she would have intended. 

Sansa’s face turns back and forth slowly from Daenerys to Jon and he sees, in slow horror, as the realization washes over her. 

“She’ll need someone to show her where to go,” Jon says, voice quiet, if not defeated. Because part of him knew it would come to this, and he should be glad, it will get him closer to the dragons without much work. 

Sansa’s porcelain skin turns impossibly whiter and he can tell it takes everything in her not to protest, her eyes find him and the look in them almost brings him to his knees. And then they are having another silent conversation. Sansa fears for his life now, in a way he doesn’t know if he has seen so openly before, on the night of the Battle of the Bastards she had hidden it away. Maybe when she begged him not to go to Dragonstone alone? But this is a journey he must undertake alone. There is no good reason for Sansa to come, it would never happen. And Jon knows, if only reluctantly, that it is the Targaryen in him that must do this, for all of them. 

Daenerys smiles then, “It is settled then. Let us go.”

Everyone takes another second to start moving but they fall in line as she turns and resumes going back to the castle. Everyone but Sansa. Jon sees Davos and Brienne glance back and he tilts his head, indicating that they should go. They both pause, unsure but then head away together. Jon turns to Sansa.

“Jon,” Sansa’s voice is small, broken. And he wishes there was something he could do, he only knows that they can’t let Daenerys see this weakness. So he does something that is both very brave and also very easy. He takes Sansa’s hand in his own. Sparks seem to pass between the clasp, even in their gloved hands. Her eyes go wide at the contact and she freezes. And then Jon is pulling her along, up towards the castle. Unseen by anyone as they all are ahead. 

And he whispers to her, even though they run no risk of being overheard, “It will be alright. In the end.”

* * *

Sansa has been distracted since the beach. It is… impossible to regain focus. She had been intrigued, engaged, and above all aware during Daenerys’ entire meltdown. She had been alert to how quickly Daenerys loses composure. Apply pressure in the right spot, and it seemed there were many spots available, and Daenerys would burst. It wasn’t exactly complicated. But she wanted to know what made her tick. 

After losing her cool in the caves she had been so happy, so beyond happy when she had been the one to propose the idea to Daenerys that would get her to agree to help them. But it had come crashing down so fast, the second she had realized what it was that Daenerys desired. Sansa had felt as if she had been flung from the back of a dragon herself, into crashing waves that only served to pull her down to the bottom of the sea and suffocate her. 

They had gone back to Dragonstone’s castle and discussed things, which had taken a few hours. Sansa barely felt present. She had let Davos, Jon, and Brienne take control for once and sat back. She knew enough to know that nothing was going awry. They were sending for the North to move, and quickly, to the Reach and prepare to meet with Daenerys’ forces to take the Lannisters out of Highgarden. In Sansa’s mind it had been a clear and easy solution to get Daenerys’ commitment. And in truth it is. Going North. Jon and Daenerys going North, it won’t delay them, they have to wait for the forces to arrive anyways. There is nothing else they need to do in the mean time. 

But she can’t help but feel as if Daenerys knew. It is impossible, logically she knows. But her and Jon had just spoken of the dragons, her reluctant acceptance, in truth her hatred, being promised to Jon. And now, the opportunity presents itself, it was almost too good to be true. And briefly, Sansa had started to worry that Daenerys would return alone, claiming Jon lost to some tragic, unavoidable accident. Convenient, without witnesses. 

She had set this aside when she began to observe Daenerys talk about their plans. She had been more excited than Sansa had ever seen her. And she knew without a doubt that Daenerys wanted, something more, marriage? Sex? Love? With Jon. It occurred to her too that Daenerys desired to share her dragons with someone because for her her dragons have been and continue to be, well, her life. And when Daenerys looks at Jon across the table adoringly, Sansa realizes that in her heart Daenerys must be lonely, she is a woman who wants for that which she has never had. She wants family. It is not something foreign to Sansa. 

Her solace is Jon’s clear disinterest. She only hopes it is not a farce.

Sansa blinks then several times and chastises herself once again. She has been lost in her thoughts all afternoon. She checks her senses and remembers where they are. They are going back to the beach. They’re expecting another group of miners to arrive shortly and they figured it best to be there to greet them. Jon, Brienne, and Davos all walk together, a bit ahead of her and she realizes that they must have accepted that she is lost to them at the moment. But when she looks up Jon is glancing back at her, only half in the conversation between the others. He turns away quickly when he realizes she has noticed. 

She needs to get it together. 

Then they’re all stopping and before she can figure out why, there’s still another big stairwell to go down, Davos is speaking.

“Missandei of Naath,” He says pleasantly.

“Ser Davos, Lady Brienne. Lord Snow and Lady Stark,” Missandei says dutifully.

Sansa doesn’t even have time to dwell on the fact that Jon is still being dismissed as a King here because her mind decides to latch onto how lovely it sounds. Lord Snow and Lady Stark. Their names, together like that. She gives her head a visceral shake and Jon glances at her again, concern beginning to show.  
  
“King Snow isn’t it? No, King Jon sounds better I think,” Davos says, but there isn’t malice there. Their fight isn’t with Missandei. 

Missandei doesn’t answer him but instead inclines her head to Jon, “Forgive me but may I ask a question?

Sansa sees his eyes show some surprise but he says, “Of course.”

“Your name is Jon Snow, but your father’s name was Ned Stark. Your sister’s name is Sansa Stark...” Missandei trails off and her voice is one of genuine curiosity. 

Sansa sucks in a breath. Because she knows she meant no harm but she couldn’t have brought up a touchier subject. Sansa is overcome by the need to reach for Jon and she has to stop herself. Earlier, when he had taken her hand, she had been undone on the spot. She knew he meant to bring her comfort but she thought it probably deteriorated her mental state worse in the moment. 

The silence stretches on and Sansa looks to Jon. He shoots her a look and there is so much sitting behind his eyes, so much she knows so well. She wonders if they will stagnate in this forever. This back and forth between them, a give and take. Because no matter how much she reassures him. He has been defined his whole life by his birth. They share in that agony now. 

The first time, when she told them that together, with a bastard son and a trueborn daughter they could unite the North: _‘Jon doesn’t have the Stark name. No, but I do.’_ And later when she had made him his cloak, weaving in all the threads of acceptance she could muster. A peace offering for the mistakes of their youth, a gesture that said, _we are the pack now_ , only us and it will only ever be us. (She’d been wrong on that last bit she thought, though the sentiment stood). She’d watched the Lords of the North go from scoffing at his bastard name to naming him the King in the North. But she thinks she saw more pride in his face when she’d said the words of affirmation: _‘I’m not a Stark. You are, You are to me.’_ Because by then it had been well established that maybe all that mattered to either of them was each other, her final verbalization enough for both of them, a quiet promise bringing them closer. 

But it was give and take, easily lost. Lost when she had told him that Robb and father made stupid mistakes. Lost when she had thought, in moments of doubt, that she spent so long accepting Jon as a Stark that she never paused to think if he saw her as one. After all she was the least like them, the most Tully, the most southern. Was she a Stark at heart? It was a doubt that had plagued her for years, would her wolf blood ever be enough. But then Jon had given her the North saying himself in his own way: _‘You are to me.’_ And she had known for one crystalline second that they were one, one soul in two bodies, maybe it sounded like a song but she felt it. And then it had crashed down again with Bran, with his truths that were harsh and nipped at all Jon had come to accept. Because he was still a Stark but at the same time he felt less of one than ever, she knew this without him having to voice it.

“I’m a bastard. My mother and father weren’t married,” Jon’s voice comes out steady but he doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes when it does. She can’t blame him but it cracks something deep within her. 

Missandei doesn’t seem to fully understand what they are getting at and Sansa feels something burn within her. 

“Jon is as much a Stark as any of my parents' children. More in some ways,” Sansa says with a tone that leaves no room for question. 

Missandei’s expression doesn’t change though. Sansa notices Jon look at her, sees a bit of him swell at her words. Funny, how she can affect him so much. It is Davos who jumps in then, with understanding. 

“Is the concept different in Naath?”

Missandei nods, “We don’t have marriage in Naath so the custom of marriage doesn’t exist.”

All of them seem a bit stunned by that but Sansa believes she had read that fact once in her studies, something shakes loose in her mind and she remembers Tyrion’s advice about testimonials. She decides to try something. 

“Why did you leave Naath, if you don’t mind me asking?” Her voice is kind but she wants information, wants to know. 

Jon raises his eyebrows, he must think her more clear minded than she has been for hours and he doesn’t know why it is. Well, he should realize quickly enough.  
  
“I was taken away by slavers,” Missandei says without changing her tone.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sansa says, it is the right thing to say even though it is what they have already heard about the woman.

“If I may, how did a slave girl come to advise Daenerys Targaryen?” Davos asks then and clearly he has picked up on the game at least. Sansa looks at Jon and sees the cogs in his eyes turning. They’re all working her now. Does Missandei realize?

“She bought me from my masters and set me free,” Missandei responds without hesitation.

“How does one buy you and then set you free, wouldn’t you still be indebted?” It is Brienne who inquires this time and it seems to unnerve Missandei for the first time. 

Her lip quivers just slightly, “I feel no debt between us. She is my best friend.”

Sansa is incredibly sad suddenly, sad for the life that Daenerys has taken from this woman who is nothing but kind. It threatens to send her into despair, luckily Davos keeps them going. 

“No, I agree that it was good of her to free you, though of course you’re serving her now aren’t you? It seems a debt does exist?” He says, not pushing too hard but just enough.

Missandei pauses then and almost becomes defensive, “I serve my Queen because I want to serve my Queen, because I believe in her.”

There it is, the devotion.

“And if you wanted to sail home to Naath tomorrow?” Jon speaks for the first time and for a moment she thinks that he has trapped Missandei in her own self-deception because a look of confusion crosses her face, it clears just as quickly though.  
  
“Then she would give me a ship and wish me good fortune,” The belief in her voice does it, Daenerys breeds devotees, Sansa can see that now. All those around her are the same.  
  
“You believe that?” Jon’s voice is incredulous and Sansa has to stop herself from laughing.

Missandei becomes defensive again. 

“I know it. All of us who came with her from Essos, we believe in her. She’s not our Queen because she’s the daughter of some King we never knew, she’s our Queen because we chose her.”

Sansa doesn’t wish to argue further but she does have one question. She is about to pose it when Brienne points to the beach. 

“My Lady, Your Grace, I think those are the ships we await,” Brienne says.

“We should go,” Jon says.

And they all make to move, not Sansa though. 

"Go on ahead, I just want to talk to Missandei a moment longer. I’ll be right down,” She says easily. 

Brienne halts immediately and Sansa sighs. She had convinced her on the matter of the cave, but she won’t be leaving her unprotected any time soon. Jon catches her eye and she just nods. So Davos and Jon turn to leave and Sansa turns back to Missandei, Brienne a step behind her. 

“I just wanted to ask you one last thing, if that is alright,” Sansa says.

Missandei’s face is open, calm and she just nods, “Of course, Lady Stark.”

Sansa considers her phrasing and then begins, “You say Daenerys is your Queen because you chose her and I understand that. But Jon was chosen by our people, not because of lineage but because of his deeds. Our deeds. If you believe in your Queen’s right not because of her family but because of her as a person, shouldn’t she also acknowledge other’s rights to rule based on the same principle?”

Sansa finishes and stares at Missandei. She mulls over the words. 

“You are very interesting Lady Stark, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you,” Missandei says, deflective. 

It is enough, Sansa thinks, she won’t sway her today but the seed has been planted about Daenerys’ own hypocrisy. She glances to the beach and sees the boats coming ashore. 

“I must go, Lady Missandei,” She turns and hears Missandei call a farewell behind her and hears Brienne following behind her. 

She hurries down the stairs, Brienne doesn't try to speak and she is grateful for the moment to collect herself. 

Quickly enough they are gaining on Jon and Davos but they’re still pretty far back. It is just then Sansa notices the ships. They are not Stark ships. She does a double take. Greyjoy ships. Her heart pounds in her chest, nearly out of it. She hadn’t let herself think about him. 

Brienne notices at the same time and lets out a whisper, “Lady Stark…”

But Sansa knows and she slows her step, not wanting to reach them and be told, one way or another. The potential for pain outweighing her hope. 

And then she sees Jon approaching someone. Sansa continues to move without consciously meaning to. The way she is coming at the pair is perpendicular, neither of them have her in their sights and she herself is looking into the sun, she can’t see who the other figure is yet. She hears her name right before Jon is gripping the other man by the shirt collar, then she knows. 

“Sansa? Is she alright?” He is cut off and Sansa clenches, it is Theon, without a doubt.

“What you did for her, is the only reason I’m not killing you,” Jon’s voice reaches her and it is gruff, dangerous and low and too protective. Too protective for a brother and a sister because there is something possessive in his tone. Something that speaks of hidden things. Of desire. 

Sansa freezes because she sees it all again. Jon promising that he won’t ever let anyone touch her, that he will protect her. And then her finding him beating Ramsay to a pulp. _‘Jon’._ And Jon’s thinly veiled hatred of Littlefinger, seizing any opportunity to defend her in the face of him. It all comes to front and she can’t think of anything else. Every wall she has built comes crashing down. She loves Jon. She loves him and it can never be, for a thousand reasons, but she loves him and it spears her straight through. When she speaks it is with her head and not her heart because it is not Jon’s name in a choked whisper, as it was with Ramsay, that comes out.

“Theon,” Sansa breathes.

And both men break apart.

Before she takes them in though she sees Davos assessing the scene. Something too perceptive in his scrutinizing features. His eyes linger on Jon, on Theon’s collar where Jon’s own hands were moments ago, and on Sansa between them. And she thinks he is too smart for his own good. 

Her eyes land on Theon though and she feels her own lip wobbling. She doesn’t even look at Jon in that moment, it is only Theon. And then he is crashing towards her. They pull each other in and just collapse into the hug. Sansa cries in earnest.

“You’re alive,” Her voice is watery and comes out disbelieving. 

“You made it to Jon,” Theon breathes into her hair, “I knew you would.”

She looks to Jon then, who stands stoically, watching the moment. She doesn’t have the time or desire to decipher his expression. 

“I told you I wouldn’t let him kill you,” Sansa lets out a laugh through her tears. 

Theon lets her go then and they stand there for a few more moments, basking in the glow of how very alive the other is, despite the odds. 

It’s Davos who interrupts them, “We heard your Uncle attacked your fleet. We thought you were likely dead.”  
  
“We should be,” Theon turns from her and his voice is full of sorrow. 

“Yara?” Sansa asks, fearing the answer. 

“Euron has her, we came to ask the Queen to help to get her back,” Theon says and looks around as if to ask where she is. 

Jon and Sansa share a nervous glance. The tension from minutes ago dissipates in favour of more important concerns. 

Sansa lays an arm on Theon’s shoulder. 

“There is much to discuss, let us go up to the castle,” Sansa says.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys says, after what feels like ages. Tyrion isn’t sure he wants to hear it. 

They’d been sitting in her room for the better part of an hour, sharing glasses of wine and doing their best to not talk about the day's events lest they get to this point. But it seems his Queen is in a forgiving mood tonight, surprising in and of itself. Maybe it’s the wine, Tyrion muses.

“For…” Tyrion lets the question hang because he wants to hear her say it. He knows that’s probably not very good as her Hand, but he wants her to suffer, if just a little. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Daenerys says, then hedges, “At least not in public like that. It was brash and reckless. Not to mention terribly risky in front of the Starks.”

Her awareness is unparalleled tonight. He has spent more nights than he cares to admit drilling into her these basic understandings of political machinations. Maybe his work on her is finally paying off. Tyrion nods at her and takes a sip from his goblet.

“Do you know what I like about you?” Daenerys asks from over her goblet.

“I honestly don’t,” Tyrion gives her a half laugh.

“You’re not a hero.”

The way she says it stings a bit and he is almost affronted, almost wants to raise his voice in protest and defend himself but he sees only futility there and she continues on quick enough anyways. 

“I don’t want you to be a hero, heroes do stupid things and they die. Drogo, Jorah, Daario, Even this Jon Snow. They all try to outdo each other,” Daenerys explains and looks at him questioningly.

He supposes that what she is saying is mostly complimentary. Then Tyrion considers her words carefully and he makes a very deliberate choice. He makes the decision to lie to his Queen. 

“There’s a pattern there. These reckless heroes you speak of,” Tyrion pauses waits to see if she suspects what he is going to say but she shows no reaction, “They all fell in love with you.”

Daenerys’ eyebrows raise quickly and her voice is incredulous, “Jon Snow is not in love with me.” 

To someone who knows her less intimately he thinks that they may not see what he sees. Because Daenerys’ voice brushes it off and in that he knows it means she desires his words to be true (something he had begun to suspect) but that she rightly believes to be false. That works for Tyrion, if he can distract her, convince her of this. She might be more willing to bend on other things going forward. Daenerys in love is easier than Daenerys who is single mindedly chasing the Iron Throne. 

“Oh, then I’m sure he stares at you longingly because he is hopeful for a successful military alliance,” Tyrion jests, too easily.

The lie doesn’t even taste bitter. It should worry him, how adept he is at this. But it doesn’t. He lost that sense of moral reprehensibility ages ago, if he ever had it at all. And Daenerys actually blushes. His words have stretched the truth beyond what is even remotely conceivable but they are what she needs to hear. She needs to hear that someone else sees the fantasy that she is building up in her head and if they do then it will be true for her. 

But Tyrion, he all but knows it is false. Jon Snow hides his disgust for his Queen under a thinly veiled mask of respect and duty. But since they have landed on the island Tyrion has come to suspect something more sinister. Something he hasn’t brought up to any other person, something he wants to keep close in case he needs the sensitive information in the future.

Because he suspects that Jon Snow loves Sansa Stark.

And until today that was all he thought. He had seen his protection of her, going beyond what is familial. He knows the signs well, growing up in Cersei and Jaime’s shadow. And Jaime was always worse at disguising his intentions than Cersei. It seems that Jon Snow is no different. Tyrion was actually surprised Jon had even allowed Sansa to go into the caves unaccompanied, but based on his behaviour on the beach it hadn’t been easy for him. 

So Tyrion had been cataloguing all these little instances of Jon Snow’s insidious longing for his half sister. It tracked, unfortunately, with what he had heard of their time in the North. Siblings who were reunited coming together to destroy the man who took their family home, meeting again under a veil of tragedy. It is enough for anyone to confuse feelings of reunion with something more, given the right circumstances. And he had heard rumours of how Jon and Sansa were Ned and Cat reborn, liberating the North and riding through with their heads high, a vision of red and black, cloaked in their wolf greys. He had found it odd to compare siblings to lovers but had let it pass as Northern sentimentality until he had seen how Jon moves unconsciously in Sansa’s wake, shadowing her movements, anticipating her reactions. It was unnerving. As it was when Jon jumped to Sansa’s defense when Tyrion mentioned their marriage, not just to defend her from the trauma but, no, something deeper, something heavy. 

And of course he had observed Sansa. Who, until today, he had thought shared none of the feelings her brother did. In fact he thought her completely oblivious to them as all around them, which Tyrion can’t fault her for. Tyrion may recognize the clues thanks to Jaime and Cersei but Jon Snow is adept enough at concealment (despite those who insist he is as honourable as Ned Stark, Tyrion knows better). But apparently he had forgotten just how to look for Cersei’s tells because he had missed them on Sansa. And then today, when Jon said he would go North, it was like waking up from a long dream. He saw it all. 

He saw Cersei in agony when Jaime was captive, losing her mind slowly, not knowing who she was. Sansa’s mask had slipped and it had been brief but when it was back in place she was changed during their meeting about the plans to bring her own armies South. Tyrion was gobsmacked. 

So his lie to Daenerys is easy. Yes, too easy, considering how much he knows it is the furthest thing from the truth. But he has learned it is best to placate your political superiors, especially if they have dragons. He knows what she wants to hear, and he will keep his observations to himself. 

When Tyrion looks back at Daenerys she is still revelling in what Tyrion has said. 

“Do you remember what they said, about Jon losing his life, what do you think–” Daenerys’ voice is full of curiosity.

And Tyrion remembers it well, he thought it was odd as well but didn’t have an explanation so he cuts her off instead. 

“Northerners are prone to exaggeration,” He brushes it off.

Daenerys seems to consider his words and he decides to steer the subject back to his Queen. 

“You did well today. Deciding to fight in the North. You showed true leadership,” Tyrion praises her.

But he knows he has misstepped immediately because she rolls her eyes and pours herself more wine. 

“I wouldn’t need to stoop so low if all our other plans hadn’t failed,” Daenerys says.

The reminder that the plans had been Tyrion’s lay heavy in the air. 

“Cersei will wait for us in the capital while we deal with these other threats,” Tyrion assures her. 

Daenerys grips her glass harder, “And when we finally go to King’s Landing?”

Her voice is lined with spikes, piercing Tyrion one by one. It is a dangerous path they traverse now. 

“When we go to the capital we will go with two armies, three if the Starks join us, and three Dragons, anyone touches you and we burn it to the ground,” Tyrion says. 

Daenerys looks pensive. 

“I want your sister to cower before me Tyrion,” Daenerys’ eyes harden, “I want her to suffer and I want her to burn.”

Tyrion lets out a sigh because while he doesn’t disagree with the sentiment, it tires him, going over the same things again and again. All in a day’s work he supposes.

“My sister, Joffrey, Aerys, even your brother Viserys, all they have ever done is inspire fear. That power is fragile, as brittle as glass. Because everyone who stands beneath them wishes to see their heads on a platter” Tyrion says.

“Aegon Targaryen got quite a long way on fear… ” Daenerys says and the tone of voice she uses actually reminds Tyrion how she is a woman to be feared. That doesn’t stop him from provoking her against his better judgement.

“If that’s the type of Queen you want to be then what makes you different from all the rest?” Tyrion toasts his cup to her, evidently already very done with the conversation.

But it appears Daenerys is not because she rises and walks to the window. 

Her words surprise him though, “You say Jon Snow loves me?”

Back to this? Tyrion is perplexed.

“From my observations…” Tyrion trails off non-committal. 

“We will see, after our dragon ride to the North. I have never shared them with anyone before,” Daenerys says, still staring out the window.

Tyrion, not wanting to discuss his Queen’s feelings for the Snow boy who will never love her, changes the subject again. 

“We must discuss this dragon riding, especially with the impending battle for the Reach,” Tyrion says.

He sees Daenerys tense across the room, she keeps her back turned. 

“What about my dragon riding, Tyrion?” She speaks through her teeth.

“The dangers it poses, Your Grace,” Tyrion says, he knows to be a good hand he has to be practical, despite how she will hate what he says next, “You want to ride them into battle and that is all well and good but if you fall–”

“You want to know who sits on the Iron Throne after I’m dead, is that it?” Daenerys whips back around at him, accusation colouring every word. 

Tyrion heaves another sigh, “You say you can’t have children, but there are other ways of choosing a successor. Going into battle without a succession plan is a folly, it would scatter your armines, ruin your legacy, all you have worked–” Tyrion is cut off by her again.

“We will discuss succession after I wear the crown and not one second before,” Daenerys says and she holds his gaze for one burning minute. 

Then she storms out of the room. Daenerys Stormborn. Yes, Tyrion has always known, he chose this path after all.

He pours himself another drink.

* * *

Theon had left an hour ago. It was already getting late. But they still remained with Davos and Brienne.

When Jon had seen Theon on that beach something primal had snapped in him. It was like he forgot who he was. He had been so overcome, with grief, rage, and a need to honour Theon’s actions for her, for Sansa. And then when he heard Sansa’s voice crack it broke him out of that trance the same way it had when he had been laying into Ramsay. But this time she had said Theon’s name and not his own.

Watching them embrace, it changed something in Jon, completely unhinged him. Logically he knew. Sansa trusted Theon with her life, not without reason. And he respected her rationale for this. But it further proved what he already knew about himself. And if he couldn’t control his emotions now it would only cause problems down the line. Sansa would never. Could never look at him like that. Not the way he looked at her. 

But Theon was gone now, just as quickly as he had come. He had petitioned Daenerys but she had turned him down, stating that the Reach had to be their priority, that they would come for Yara another time, if they had the chance later on. He had seen the way Theon’s every hair bristled at her words. How this Queen his sister had clearly believed in discarded her like scraps from her plate without even a second thought. But Theon hadn’t backed down. He had insisted that he would mount a rescue mission for her himself. They’d tried to convince him to stay and rest a night, but he had said they would rest once they were back on land. 

It had been bittersweet, Jon knew, for Sansa. To get Theon back so briefly only to have to part from him again, but she understood more than most that need for familial (as Jon so frequently had to remind himself, _familial_ ) closeness. They had gone off for a few minutes to say goodbye privately and honestly Jon had been fine, he hadn’t even flinched he had waited in silence with Davos and Brienne and then when he was about to leave Jon caught him by the arm. 

The others were just out of hearing range but he felt Sansa’s eyes jump back to him. 

Jon looked in Theon’s eyes, seeing the boys they had been together, brought together by Robb’s love for the both of them despite their differences. (He didn’t need to say it aloud, Robb was better than both of them, they had never deserved him).

“You’re a Greyjoy,” Jon said, “But you’re a Stark. Go save your sister, then return.”

He had meant to apologize when he gripped his arm but he thought this meant more, and it evidently had because Theon’s eyes had shone with wet tears. His mouth quirked up.

“So are you,” Theon whispered back through his emotions, “King in the North, whose name is Stark.”

The words slap him across the face, leaving him gaping. Because he had heard it before but thought of it as a sentiment the Northerners tell themselves. Here, falling from Theon’s lips, it meant so much more. Robb had been the last King in the North. His memory laid bare between them here. Theon didn’t know the truth, but Jon knew suddenly that it wouldn’t matter to him, the same way it hadn’t mattered to Sansa. To them. To them he would always be a Stark. Something unknown swelled within him. 

Theon let go and turned to go on his way. Jon had turned back to the group and when he approached Sansa said, almost reproachfully.

“What was that about?”

“Old wounds,” Jon said, thoughtful, “They take time to heal.”

Since then they had been discussing their time amongst themselves. Trying to predict and prepare for what was to come. They had just received word from Bran. Sansa looks up from the letter. 

“He has been watching us,” Sansa says, Brienne and Davos had been brought up to speed on their brother’s oddities if not everything he had told them, “He had already rallied an army so they will be ready to come to the Reach sooner than expected. It’s good news.”

But Sansa’s voice is anything but happy. They still haven’t had a moment alone since the decision for Jon to go North with Daenerys was made. And he catches her watchful eye sliding to him every so often, as if she fears he will slip away if she looks away for too long. He dreads, yet anticipates what will come when they are alone. 

“Does Bran intend to stay in Winterfell?” Davos asks her. 

Sansa scans the paper further, “He does, he has given command to our most trusted Lords and requested that Brienne meet them until we can come ourselves.”

Brienne seems startled, “My Lady, I won’t leave you.”

Sansa pinches her nose, the day is taking a toll on her, Jon can tell. 

“You must Brienne. I wish you didn’t have to either. But I will be here with Davos and Jon. You best leave tomorrow. If Jon and I can not be there it is you I trust most to mobilize our people. They know you. Even as a woman you will have their trust,” Sansa speaks with logic even as her voice trembles. 

Brienne nods, not willing to argue with her this time. Jon doesn’t like it either, leaving Sansa undefended with only Davos. With himself leaving tomorrow as well. But he doesn’t speak up. It would be a fruitless argument considering the own risks he plans to undertake. 

“We must discuss what comes after, I think. We know the plan for Jon, the plan for the Reach. But we will inevitably need to return North,” Davos says, laying his hand over Winterfell on the map before them. 

Jon says, “We left preparations with Bran. They are working on making armor, weaponry and preparing it to be altered with Dragonglass. Our food stores are being tracked and prepared for Winter, as per what Sansa has catalogued. There is nothing else we can do from here.”

It is with resignation that he says the last bit. It is hard, ruling your Kingdom from across the continent. 

Davos presses on though, “Yes. And after that the Dragon Queen is going to insist that the issue of independence in the North is brought up again. I will not advise either of you against it, but I think you must both seriously consider what the prospect of going to war with her would bring.”

Jon and Sansa exchange a sorrowful glance. He knows they are both tired. Exhausted and weary to the bone. But at the same time they are both unwilling to compromise on this issue. The issue that drives them. It is Sansa who responds to Davos though. 

“We don’t have to discuss it yet. We don’t even know which of us will be alive by the time it comes to that, we can only focus on the present,” Sansa says lightly.

And Jon hates how carelessly she talks about her own life. About _their_ lives. He sees Brienne bristle and Davos’ eyes widen as well.

“I’m going to go to my room, I am exhausted. We have all had a long day, we can resume talks once Jon returns from his journey beyond the wall,” Sansa says, bitterness creeping in only at the end. 

She rises and heads out of the room. Brienne follows her. 

Only Jon and Davos remain. Jon takes a big stretch. He too is exhausted, Sansa’s suggestion of sleep is a good one. He yawns and rises as well.

Davos gives him pause, “Your Grace.”

It is a suggestion, a suggestion to stay for a moment longer. And Jon fears what he will say given all he has seen now, what does his closest advisor think? Does he want to know? It can be nothing good if he is deferring to _‘Your Grace’_ already.

“What is it Davos?” Jon probably sounds agitated but he has no wish to delay whatever this is. 

“Please be careful with the Dragon Queen tomorrow,” He says, his voice overly cautious. 

“I’m more concerned about the dragons myself,” Jon says, playing it off as a joke. But one look to Davos and he knows that he is wrong to do so.

“Not me, Your Grace,” Davos hesitates and then seems to resign himself, “She is coming to love you I think. And that is far more dangerous than any dragon fire.”

Jon suspected something like this was coming, what with all of Davos’ looks of deep concentration lately. He only stares.

“You cannot let her know, in so many words, that you do not return the sentiment. If she tries something…” Davos trails off, concern still in his eyes. 

Jon grips the back of the chair he vacated moments before, “You’re suggesting I sleep with the enemy to solidify our political position?”

Jon is disgusted.

Davos sighs at that though, “Only if she wants to Jon. I would never say you force yourself to do something you abhor. She’s pretty enough…”

Davos keeps trailing off and it aggravates Jon further. 

“As if that is all that matters!” Jon says and he isn’t sure exactly why he is getting so mad. 

Davos lets his explosion reverberate for a few more seconds. 

“Jon, you’re walking a dangerous line, and as your advisor it is my duty to tell you so,” Davos says and Jon doesn’t appreciate the knowing tone in his voice, as if he is getting scolded as a boy all over again. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon says and he turns to the door, reaches for the handle. 

“Are you going to her rooms now?” Davos asks and Jon feels hot all over, “Sansa’s?”

Jon doesn’t turn back and maybe that is enough of an answer. Because Davos continues on.

“My advice? Don’t. This doesn’t end well for any of us Jon,” Davos’ voice is heavy with regret and Jon doesn’t loosen his grip on the doorknob. 

He grits his teeth and pulls it open. Maybe slamming it a little too harshly behind him.

And because he is a sucker for punishment, he doesn’t listen to Davos. He can’t _not_ go to see her. Not after the day they just had. Jon will control himself as he always does and Davos can stop being overly perceptive.

He knocks the second he gets to the door, not allowing himself to second guess it. 

“Come in,” her voice comes from within.

And Jon hadn’t realized that he had been half scared she would reject him coming inside. That she would remain silent. His breath comes out in relief as he steps inside. 

Brienne wasn’t outside the door and she is not within, clearly having been sent to her own rooms for the night. Sansa though. Sansa’s hair is loose, falling in tresses down her back, which is facing him now. She stands in a bed robe. Her linen slip wisps out beneath the fabric. From her movement she is just securing it on right now, tying it snugly around her waist. Jon’s throat seals up thinking about how she must have just finished changing, about how she was near bare when he had knocked but she had called him in anyways. All thoughts of Davos’ warnings leave immediately. 

Sansa turns to him then and her face is clear. Pearlescent white but glowing with the lantern light. Stray pieces of hair frame her face and he tries not to draw his eyes to the deep dip that her robe is making. But he looks into her eyes and it’s almost worse. Worse because he can tell she has been crying. 

“Sansa are you alright?” His voice comes out softer than he intends and he takes an unconscious step towards her, reaching out a hand. 

Sansa doesn’t flinch but she stiffens and it is enough to stop him in his tracks. She sniffs.

“Do you think I’m alright Jon?” Sansa’s voice is harsh but more than that it is hurt. 

And he has to admit he deserves it, but in her anger he remembers his own from before, white hot and scalding. 

“You don’t get to do that,” He says, coming to stand a few steps away from her, frustration in his every step.

“Do what?” Sansa asks, as if she doesn’t know.

“That!” Jon says, “Act wrong done by. You’re the one who pledged our armies to another war in the South while the North is under attack from the Night King!”

Sansa’s nostrils flare, “What would you have me do Jon? Daenerys has shown no sign of budging. She keeps us held on this island. And don’t forget I have secured her promise to come North after this!”

“At the cost of Northern lives!” Jon throws back. 

And Sansa’s eyes go wide. He knows it isn’t fair. But she isn’t being fair either. He supposes that neither of them are ever fair to each other. How are they back at the same point they were when they were preparing to fight Ramsay?

“Don’t talk to me about Northern lives Jon,” Sansa says and then she turns away from him, “Because if you lose yours tomorrow, the war will be lost. It will all be for nothing. Gods, why can’t you see that?”

She turns back to him with tears glinting in her eyes again. Is there anything he can do to stop the tears? Anything at all? Because he is quickly discovering there is nothing he hates worse than this, than filling her with pain. And yet she does the same to him. Maybe that is what they have become, vessels overflowing with pain and unresolved emotions.

Jon goes to her then and takes her by the shoulders. Not harshly, but desperately. 

“You need to trust me Sansa. I will be fine on the dragons. I have–I have Targaryen blood,” Jon nearly chokes on the words.

“It will appease her and I will return to you, I promise,” Jon says and he makes her look right into his eyes, holding her in place to see the sincerity there, she has to know she has him. No matter what. 

What she says next is just pained enough to break his heart. 

“Then you must trust me Jon,” she says quietly, “Trust me to know what is best for our Kingdom. Trust me to do all that I can to ensure our continued survival. As I have always done, by keeping myself alive. Alive enough to find you.”

Sansa leans closer. Jon is burning. Because her words. Her words are hot to the touch. She did find him and he has done his best to protect her since then. He thinks, suddenly, that they are two wolves baring their teeth at each other but only because they care for one another too much. Snarls rip from their chests but they are family first, they always will be.

“I do Sansa,” Jon closes his eyes, their growing proximity overwhelming, “I do trust you.”

“Prove it,” Sansa breathes.

They’re only inches away but he swears her words suck all the remaining air out of the room. Her eyes are unblinking, and Jon’s reopened, are unable to pull away. They stand there, breathing shallowly. Tension in the air rife and thick enough to cut through with a hot blade. He glances at her lips. Soft and pink, parted ever so slightly as she breathes in and out and he moves minutely towards them. Glances up at her for confirmation. 

A knock at the door shatters the room. They are frozen for a few more seconds. And then they are withdrawing from each other, quickly. Jon feels slightly dazed, lightheaded. And it is Sansa who rasps out a harried ‘Come in’.

Jon thinks they must look quite a state. Mussed and flushed, as if they were caught at something they shouldn’t be. (And isn’t that the crux? That they shouldn’t? But if she feels it too… _‘prove it’)_. Sansa in her night slip and bed robe. Jon still in his day clothes but he knows his cheeks are a bright red and eyes must be filled with stars. Yet their state is nothing compared to what greets them at the door. 

Brienne is standing their panting out of breath. Gripping two shards of paper. The knight looks more unkempt than he has ever seen her, she is not in her night clothes, but no armor, nothing formal and just a pair of breeches and loose shirt. Davos is behind her, equally distressed. His eyes light up for a second when he sees Jon and Sansa have clearly been interrupted. And Jon sees the disapproval there, (damn Davos, he thinks, he loves the man but damn him) he seems to set it aside for whatever it is they have brought to them.

“Oh! Your Grace! We couldn’t find you. Thank the gods you are here,” Brienne says between breaths, “My Lady, Your Grace. A letter has come. The paper had torn. I didn’t mean to read it…”

Brienne trails off, clearly nervous about this breach of behaviour, not that it matters. 

“What does it say?” Sansa says immediately and sharply. Her composure is instantly restored in the face of potential danger.

Brienne glances ever so quickly to Davos who gives her a nod. 

“Your sister.”

It is only two words. Two words and Jon’s knees nearly give out. He grips the table to steady himself. He isn’t sure why, the words could mean anything. But it is news. News of Arya. Arya thought long dead. Will this be the confirmation they never received? Or? No. Jon won’t let himself think about it. Nor does he have the strength to ask.

He catches Sansa in his line of sight then. She has gone rigid all over. Her hands grip together tightly, an unbreakable clasp in front of her and her lips are turning white. Her hair seems to stand on end with static, as if a jolt has gone right through her, inhibiting her from moving until they get further information. 

“She lives,” Davos says quickly, “She returned to Winterfell not a week ago.”

And Sansa lets out a choked sob. Before Jon can think he is catching her in his arms. Holding her to his chest while she cries. Releasing all the emotion that has been pent up for far too long. And as she collapses into him he doesn’t care what Davos may think. What even Brienne may think. He only thinks of her, lets her pulse steady him. And as she cries into his chest he feels hot and salty tears begin to sting his own cheeks. 

Arya lives.

* * *

In the end, Jon gets maybe three hours of sleep before Davos is knocking on his door to get ready to go. The dream he had been roused from was peculiar. It had been blindingly happy but unclear why. There was snow, crunching beneath his feet, he thinks he was at the Godswood. And he remembered a feeling of waiting, what was it that he was waiting for? If only he could remember the dream. He can't dwell on it though because Daenerys is awake and ready to embark on their journey. 

After Davos and Brienne had interrupted them, they’d spent much of the night dissecting Bran’s letter. They’d given Jon and Sansa some time to gain composure. Sansa had cried herself out and when both their breathings had resteadied they had been ready to hear the contents of the letter. 

Jon recalled when Bran had appeared as if from nowhere in Winterfell’s Great Hall. Though this felt altogether different now. They had been gleeful with relief but they hadn’t had to compose themselves, they were able to bask in those emotions with Bran, even as changed as he was. But here, miles from Arya herself, it became infinitely harder. To know that she was alive but out of reach for the time being. 

There had been a few frantic minutes where Sansa began to insist that she return to Winterfell immediately. Soon enough she had talked herself down from that fantasy before any of the others had to intercede. But Jon related to the feeling. He had nearly done it had he not? Years ago when he wanted to join Robb’s war? Was this not the same feeling that tugged at his heart now?

Brienne had read them the letter. A few things were clear. Jon doubted very much that Arya herself had seen the letter. And also this one had been sent so close to the other formal letter but it had gone to Brienne directly. It was an interesting choice, Jon thought. But maybe Bran knew something he didn’t. Clearly he suspected their letters could at least be monitored. And maybe he knew that Brienne would be least watched. For whatever reason. Either way, it had come in the dead of night and only the four of them knew of its existence, not that Jon thought the information was necessarily something they had to keep to themselves. No, Bran had given them assured privacy at the very least.

And he knew Arya hadn’t read it because in truth, Bran makes some rather disparaging comments. How he had to force her not to run to Dragonstone or even to join their forces going South to the Reach. Bran seemed to think it of utmost importance that Arya remain in Winterfell for the time being. Jon couldn’t disagree. They were in enough danger here. With four Starks alive they bettered their chances to keep them two and two, if worse comes to worse in the wars to come, as loathe as Jon is to admit it, they might not make it all out alive. Though if Jon still knows his sister he knows that the more you tell Arya not to do something, the more you are likely to see her do just that thing. 

He hopes she listens though. He likes to think of the two of them, Bran and Arya, in Winterfell together. As it should be. As they all will be soon if he has any say in it. 

As they had all discussed the letter Sansa had acted like nothing had happened between them, gave no indication of their _almost_ and Jon wondered if he had imagined the whole thing. But no, he knew it was not so. Then when she realized the late hour and ushered them all from the room so they could get some sleep at least, Jon did not linger there. And they did not discuss things further. Nor would they get the chance now with Jon rushing off to fly dragons. 

The thought turns his stomach again as he laces up his breeches. He moves to his basin and splashes his face with water. It doesn’t make him a Targaryen. A feeble chant he repeats as he finishes getting ready. But in reality Jon feels crummy, he feels worthless and more a bastard than he ever did growing up. 

He steels himself and leaves his chambers, making his way to Davos’ room. Davos himself is obviously tired as well and they make their way to the outside of the castle. On the way down they come across Sansa. Somehow, she looks put together, the lack of sleep not affecting her impeccable, well, everything. Jon gives his head a shake, not now. 

“Brienne has just been off, she will get to the mainland and ride straight on to our armies, she’ll send word as soon as she can,” Sansa’s tone is formal, clipped. And Jon knows she is anxious about what is to come, even if they are only gone for a day, as Daenerys had promised. Well it will be a long day for both of them. 

Jon and Davos just nod, both too tired to talk much and they all head out of the castle. 

Daenerys had told them all to meet her by the fields on the cliffs overlooking the sea. They would take the dragons from there. 

The three of them make short work of the walk and too quickly they are there. Jon sees Daenerys, Missandei, Varys, and Tyrion all waiting for them. Daenerys looks over eager, more pleased than Jon has ever seen her. He takes one last moment to brace him for what is to come. Davos’ revolting words from the night before scratching at the back of his mind. He hopes nothing of the sort happens. 

“Lord Snow,” Daenerys says, “Are you ready?” 

Jon gives her a nod. 

“Then let us be off, no point in delay,” she smiles, “We’ll walk about a mile out into the field that way and I’ll call the dragons to me.”

Jon doesn’t want to know what that means so he doesn’t ask. Instead he turns to Davos and Sansa.

Davos grips his hand and pulls him into half a hug. 

“Do what you must,” He whispers with regret into Jon’s ear.

Jon gulps and lets go of Davos. He turns to Sansa. 

She stands there with her hair fluttering in the cold morning wind. She looks resolute, completely composed and unbothered. Everything about her is pristine, as if she has been carved from stone. Jon pauses for one moment and then envelopes her inside his cloaks. Pulling her to him and squeezing her hard. Trying to translate everything left unsaid between them into that brief moment. She clutches at him, he can feel desperation in the pull. He whispers in her ear.

“Winter is here,” His lips graze her ear, unseen by anyone else, “We will endure.”

It is meant to be comforting. The knowledge that in Winter they protect their own, that it is what Jon is doing now. He is doing this for all of them, for her. But he feels her go still in his arms and when he releases her a slight furrow has creased her brow.

He turns towards Daenerys who still has a faint hint of a smile. 

“Our Queen has packed provisions for the journey,” Lord Varys says and passes two bags, one to Daenerys and one to Jon, “You don’t plan to be gone for more than a day but it is best to have something to tide you over.”

Jon takes the pack graciously, not having thought of it himself, too focused on the dragons, and secures it to his belt. Daenerys does the same. 

To Jon’s bewilderment then, Daenerys loops her arm through his own and starts to pull them away from the group. Jon has no choice but to follow. 

“We will see you tonight,” Daenerys says to the rest of them.

Jon spares one last glance back at the group and sees only Sansa. Sees her jaw set in a hard line. Regrettably, he looks away from her. He has no choice. Just before they are out of earshot though she calls out. 

“Daenerys.”

Daenerys halts them and Jon can feel a current strumming through her at the blatant disrespect Sansa is showing. He thinks she considers pretending she didn’t hear but she has already stopped. Daenerys turns the two of them together. Arches an eyebrow.

“Bring him back,” Sansa’s voice is a warning, it is clear as day to all of them standing there.

And then Sansa turns on her heel and strides away from the group, moving at a pace that is nearly a run. Jon sees Lords Varys and Tyrion watching her intently, both in deep thought while Davos watches in apparent concern. Then Jon is being wrenched back by Daenerys. They are walking quickly now and he spares a glance at her. 

“Your sister,” She says after a few minutes of silence and her voice is testy, full of restraint, “Is unlike anyone I have ever met.”

Somehow, the way Daenerys says this comes out nothing like a compliment. But Jon knows she could have said worse. He tames the anger searching for purchase in his veins. 

“One moment I think we are almost friends, if not allies. The next I think she hates me,” Daenerys says mostly to herself, “It is perplexing.”

Jon remains quiet, the safest option he thinks, to not provoke her further. Daenerys drops his arm then and he thinks he has faltered but she also stops walking. 

“But we’ll put all that aside today. Today is just about us Jon,” She stops walking. 

“This will do, the dragons will come soon,” She looks at him and her eyes look like that of a child ready to show off their most prized possession.

“How do you know they are coming?” Jon speaks for the first time. 

“We sense each other. They are my children,” Daenerys pauses and something clouds her eye. 

Then she looks to Jon, a bit vulnerable, “The only children I’ll ever have.”

Jon doesn’t know what to make of the confession, or how to respond. He isn’t even fully clear on what she is implying. Luckily, just then the dragons arrive. All three of them. This time, Jon doesn’t fall to the ground. His heart pounds as they land around them but he maintains an image of dignity at least.

“I’ve never shared them with anyone before,” Daenerys says, and starts to make her way to the largest, “My husband died before he had the chance to meet them, Drogo that is. That is who this one is named for, Drogon.”

Jon nods as they approach him. Watches as Daenerys reach out her hand to touch his scales, the beast makes a keening noise, not unlike Jon has heard Ghost make. It is not nearly as endearing in this circumstance though. 

“Not even Daario… ” Daenerys continues with a look of mischief, “My lover from Essos.”

She levels him with a look and Jon is instantly uncomfortable. He coughs and nods his head to the other dragons. 

“And the others?” He asks. 

Daenerys is clearly not gaining the reaction she wanted and he hears her sigh softly. 

“Rhaegal and Viserion. For my brothers Rhaegar and Viserys,” She says fondly.

Jon watches them in trepidation. They seem unconquerable, the ultimate display of power. And he can admit that he fears them, fears that this sort of thing lives inside him too. 

“I think it will be easiest if you take one yourself to ride. I don’t know how Drogon would react to having another rider,” Daenerys says then and it takes Jon aback. It wasn’t what he expected, she is unknowingly gifting a dragon to the only other Targaryen left.

But then there is a moment where it all makes a twisted picture in his brain. Rhaegal, for Rhaegar. For the father Daenerys doesn’t know about. Well. If that’s not fate, Jon doesn’t know what is. 

“Rhaegal, I think,” Jon says and he starts to approach, with a hand up in a gesture of peace as he saw Daenerys do moments ago.

As he comes closer, Rhaegal seems to become aware of his presence and it chills him until Jon realizes he is not mounting a defense but actually lowering his head. Lowering it so Jon can place a hand there. As soon as he makes contact, his hand trembling a bit, he feels a wash of emotion. An instant connection, and it nearly knocks him off his feet. He doesn’t realize that Daenerys is right behind him.

“Incredible isn’t it? You can feel the raw power they possess,” Daenerys says in awe. 

Jon swallows and manages a weak nod. 

“Is there er- anything I should know about riding him?” Jon asks and his voice falters. 

He meets Daenerys’ gaze and she looks amused. 

“Hang on,” She smirks.

She starts to walk back to Drogon, “Just fly behind me, Rhaegal will follow. And you’ll enjoy it. It will be a few hours and then I’ll try to bring us down so we can talk about specifically where we are going to head once we get North of the wall. But for now we can just set course North.”

And then he sees her mounting Drogon, climbing up his tail and onto his back. Jon takes one last look at Rhaegal, his eyes meet Rhaegal’s big reptilian ones and he knows suddenly that he won’t be harmed here. So he takes a deep breath and does the same.

Then they are off, before he can even settle into the odd feeling of being on the back of a dragon they are lifting off. 

It takes Jon several minutes to slow his pulse and breathing, to prevent a panic induced fainting spell he suspects. And then it takes the better part of an hour to feel at all at ease. But when he does, when he does, the feeling is actually amazing. It is freeing, up above the clouds. In the sky, so clear and peaceful. Westeros and all its problems a mere speck below. 

Daenerys rides level with him a few times and smiles over at him, calling things he can’t hear over the wind and they ride on. He catches glimpses of Viserion trailing behind them from time to time as well. Mostly he feels something inside him shifting, but it doesn’t bring fear, it brings ease. It seems that by accepting the truth of his dragon blood he can conquer it, and not let it define him. A funny realization when one is on the back of a dragon, Jon admits. 

What must be several hours later Daenerys starts to descend. The sun is high in the sky and Jon is aware of his growing thirst, he could also eat and the provisions they brought sound divine about now. Another twenty minutes pass and they come to a snowy peak. Jon knows they must be in the North by now and he suddenly realizes how close he could be to Winterfell, to Bran and Arya. It rushes over him quickly, gives him even more confidence for the day’s events. He is where his heart belongs. 

They hit the ground and Jon slides down Rhaegal’s back. He lands in the snow pile, and he is glad that yesterday he remembered to tell Daenerys to dress warmly. She is already waiting for him on the ground, beaming. He hadn’t noticed it earlier but she wears a coat of pure white. Her gloves are red though, as are the seams of her coat. The effect is interesting to say the least. It seems as if blood pours slowly from her. It is slightly distressing. 

“Well?” Daenerys asks him eagerly, standing a little closer than he wishes she would. 

He nods, “It is quite invigorating. More so than mounting a horse I daresay.”

It’s a stupid thing to say but it seems to be the right thing for her because her smile only grows. 

“I knew you would like it. How could you not?” Daenerys says and she pulls on his arm, bringing him over to a waterfall he hadn’t previously seen, it is quite beautiful in the snow he must admit.

He glances around and realizes that the dragons have left them for the time being. They are truly alone. He has no choice but to focus his energies on Daenerys. It is like she is a new woman here in the North. Her dragons change her, he isn't sure it is for the better though. She is nearly fanatical about them. 

She goes to sit on a large rock and pats the place beside her for him to join. 

They eat in silence for several minutes, drawing food and waterskins from their packs and devouring. The riding, while taking no effort, drains you. When they are nearly finished she speaks again. 

“I have to apologize,” Daenerys says, “I haven’t shown you the respect you deserve. You are a King, I can see that now Jon.”

Jon blanches, where is she going with this?

“Daenerys…” He says hedging.

“But there can be only one throne in Westeros and that throne is mine. I am the last Targaryen, you must understand this Jon,” Daenerys continues and she really draws him in with her violet tinged eyes. 

He thinks he nearly tells her the truth. Just because of how absurd her claim is, how it throws him off balance, he nearly blurts it out. Because he stands right there. Yes, still a bastard, but a Targaryen same as her. But he bites his tongue at the last minute. 

Suddenly, Daenerys grips his hand. Clutching it much too tightly as to cause discomfort. 

“Be _my_ King. Jon,” her eyes are hungry and searchin, “When this is over. Wed me. We will convince Sansa to bend with you by my side. You can’t deny there is something that pulls us together Jon. Both alone in the world, but monarchs to our people. Tell me you feel this too.”

And several things run through Jon’s head. He is not alone, that is the first thought. Maybe they are more alike than he cares to admit, Targaryen blood and all but he is not alone, not like her. Secondly, the thought that he would ever do that to Sansa, force her to bend, for any reason. It goes beyond what is rational, surely she must know that. And lastly. Screw Davos to all hell because this will do none of them any good. Leading on a woman half mad with dragon lust is not the way to fight for the North. So he removes himself from her grip and stands up.

“You have vowed to leave the conversation of Northern independence aside until after our deal is complete,” Jon says sternly with no warmth, “I suggest you follow through on that and don’t attempt to drive a wedge between Sansa and I again, it will not work.”

His blunt words cause Daenerys’ mouth to drop open and he thinks for one second she is going to cry. But then her gaze hardens and she squints at him. 

“You know nothing, Jon Snow. You’ll regret this. One day,” she says and turns from him, walking towards where the dragons are now landing again. 

Her words chill him. Here in the North. Too close to where Ygritte died. He puts the thought from his mind. 

“Head Northeast when we get to the Wall and then I’ll take the lead when we get close to the last place we knew them to be,” Jon says gruffly and mounts Rhaegal. Not sparing Daenerys another glance. 

Another few hours later the sun is starting to set and they have still not glimpsed any marching dead. Jon grows weary. They have not landed again. Jon keeps taking them in wide circles, slowly shifting them further and further East but nothing, not the vaguest sign. He doesn’t know how long she expects them to keep this up but she has given no indication that she would like to stop. Another hour passes and Jon gets so fed up he takes matters into his own hands. He starts the descent into an open bit of land, planning to insist that they return back, it is already much later than they intended to be. 

When they reach the ground Daenerys is already yelling. 

“What are you doing? We haven’t seen any of them and it’s been hours!” Daenerys shouts accusingly, making her way to him.

Here Jon has been thinking about what an absurd task this even is when it seems that she has only spent the hours stewing over their last conversation. 

“We can’t stay out here endlessly. Maybe they know we are here and have concealed themselves, be reasonable Daenerys,” Jon says calmly.

“Or maybe there are no walking dead armies and you’re a mad man Jon Snow!” She says and points a finger right at his chest and her own heaves in response. 

He is about to reply, with a less than kind comment when there is a great roar. Above them, all three dragons circle and call out in distress. Jon and Daenerys both look around wildly. And then Jon sees him, on a cliff not a mile from where they stand. 

The Night King.

And for one endless second their eyes lock. And Jon swears he sees the bastard smirk. Before he closes his grip on a huge bloody spear. And he takes aim, before Jon can realize what is happening and Daenerys lurches beside him.

“No!” Her shout is agonized and Jon realizes why. 

He is not taking aim at them, but at her dragons. 

In one second the air is filled with horrible sounds. Because the spear finds its mark, gutting Viserion horribly, blood spilling out everywhere. And between his roars and his brother's fury the sky turns alight with the flames of dragons. Viserion is falling and the other two are spewing fire in their rage.

It is suddenly chaos. Daenerys is screaming, at a loss for what she is seeing. And then to make matters worse, Jon gets a sinking feeling and all around them dead start to emerge from the trees, from the snow, from everywhere. He comes to his senses instantly. 

“Daenerys! Daenerys!” He grabs her and shakes her, pulling her from her grief, “Call Drogon and Rhaegal back now! Do it! We don’t have time!”

Daenerys takes a few seconds and then looks around them. Absorbs the situation and pulls all her focus. 

Jon looks to the skies. Slowly, too slowly they are descending. Viserion is long gone, falling in some far off trees, unreachable. 

And just seconds before the dragons hit the ground, the pain comes. Hot and searing. Right through his shoulder. He falls to one knee. Looks at his shoulder and sees an arrow has gone right through. Vaguely he realizes he is bleeding, too much blood he thinks. 

Daenerys is yelling again but the pain is all he can register. The dragons are on the ground now. He sees Rhaegal burning hundreds of dead descending on them. Daenerys is yelling his name over and over. 

“Jon! Jon! Stay with me! Do not die on me Jon Snow! Jon!”

And he feels her hauling him, somehow this relatively small woman, maybe it is adrenaline, hauls him onto Drogon’s back, holds onto him and gets them out of there. 

His head lulls to the side and he sees one last glimpse of the Night King’s face and instead of fury at their escape he sees triumph. That worries Jon more than his escalating blood loss. Why triumph? He thinks he should know why, it seems like it would be obvious. But he is having trouble focusing.

He doesn’t hear Daenerys’ chanting in his ears, begging him to live.

Instead, in his final moments before slipping into unconsciousness he sees red. Red hair turning over and over again like a flame, as if twirling endlessly. And then, for one second. A pair of bright blue eyes.

* * *

Sansa jolts upright. She had been nearly falling asleep over her bowl of stew that was starting to cool. She can’t shake the sudden feeling of unease but she suspects it has more to do with her state of exhaustion than anything else actually dire. After Jon and Daenerys had left this morning she had gone back to her chambers, citing the need for more rest. In truth she had merely gone and lied down but stayed wide awake. She had gone numb with fear for Jon. 

She hadn’t left her chambers until later in the afternoon and she had just aimlessly walked the castle trying to distract herself. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do for the day, nothing but count down the hours until Jon returns. She had come across Tyrion at one point and he tried to engage her in conversation but she had shrugged him off, probably quite rudely and made her way far from where he was. She hadn’t seen any of the rest of Daenerys’ entourage and with Brienne gone it was just Davos who remained from her own side and he had made himself scarce as well. 

She pushes around some of the stew in her bowl and tries to bribe herself to eat, but with no reward in the picture it proves a futile practice. Her thoughts slip dangerously close to last night. And while she had somehow staved off the memory all day she couldn’t resist anymore.

_ Prove it.  _ What a foolish and reckless thing to say. But she hadn’t felt so wired in all her life. It was like flames were burning in her heart when she said it to Jon. She can feel the sensation now even hours later. She can feel their proximity to each other, breathing the same air. Breathing in each other. It had been a dare. A callout to both of them, but especially to Jon because Sansa didn’t know how to suffer in this alone any longer. If she was to love in solitude then she needed to know. 

And now things were worse because she was left without resolution. She wonders what would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted. Would Jon have broken the trance that had overtaken them? Or would he have given in and pressed his lips to hers as she had so been wishing him to do last night. Part of her felt like it was their only chance, what had happened last night, and somehow they had missed it.

Despite this though, Sansa felt the interruption was worth it, there wasn’t much that could have been but Arya’s life. Arya’s life was worth anything. The knowledge had rippled through her for hours after she had found out and after everyone left her room hours later she had barely slept a wink, hence her exhaustion now. She just vibrates with the need to see her sister. 

She can only think of the last times they saw each other, not on the best of terms, fighting and bickering over petty things. Childish, considering the paths their lives had taken since. Because she knew Arya would’ve endured as many hardships as she had, there was no doubt there. It was almost a rite of passage for all the Stark children, she thought morbidly. 

At least Arya and Bran have each other now. She knows that Arya will hate the confinement but Sansa trusts Bran to keep her safe and hopes Arya can bring Bran comfort, hopefully the more time she spends with him the more obvious it will become to her that leaving him alone would be awful. Bran needs them and having to leave him had nearly broken Sansa. 

It is getting late, not so late that it is yet time to grow concerned for Jon’s return but late enough that she should ready herself to go and wait for him to return. Because regardless of anything else she feels she must be there to welcome him back. United front as always. Just as she is about to stand up though the dining hall door opens. 

Belatedly Sansa realizes that she had been alone for some time, the rest of the diners having cleared out in the last hour. And the person who enters is none other than Davos. At least it is a friendly face. She gives him a small smile.

“I was wondering where you had gotten to,” Sansa says and pats the chair at her table, “Join me Lord Davos.”

Davos smiles goodnaturedly in return and starts to walk over, “You were wondering? I have spent much of the day with Lords Tyrion and Varys, it is you, My Lady, who has been missing I think.”

Sansa blushes because he isn’t wrong and it is not at all dutiful, how she has spent the day in bed, anguishing despite nothing to exactly anguish over. Davos’ words register though and her flush clears. 

She raises a brow, “Did they have anything of interest to say?”

Davos merely shrugs and takes a swig of the ale he brought with him, “Not really no. They did try to get some information about you though…”

Sansa can’t say she is surprised, but she looks at Davos and encourages him to elaborate.

“The attempt was good, talking about the Battle of the Bastards but not you and Jon specifically, tried to get me talking about your role in depth I wager but I realized long before anything potentially significant had been spilled,” Davos assures her. 

“Did they say anything of me?” Sansa is genuinely curious as to this. 

Davos considers for a moment. 

“Tyrion regards you as someone he can still control I think. Why he would think that I have no idea as you have given him no indication as such, but I think he suspects the relationship is repairable,” Davos says.

Sansa gulps involuntarily, it’s not what she hoped to hear. 

Davos continues, “Varys on the other hand seems very interested in the person you have become since meeting you last. I can’t figure out his intentions just yet but he is watching you, studying you, that is for certain.”

Sansa nods, she had suspected as much but the confirmation is actually reassuring. Varys should see her as a threat. She  _ is  _ a threat.

“There’s nothing we can do about any of them until after the war on the Night King,” Sansa says with resignation.

Davos looks at her then and she can tell he is readying himself to say something. 

“What is it Davos?” Sansa asks. 

Davos narrows his eyes a bit unsure of himself, “Hypothetically. If we defeat the Night King and all of us live. What is your plan for that My Lady, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Sansa suspects that Davos is not asking the question he truly wishes to but she sighs and speaks honestly anyways. 

“Northern freedom is paramount. To Jon and me both, especially with both Bran and Arya alive now. We will do what we must to ensure we secure that, but there are too many variables to know how we will go about it,” Sansa replies with a shrug. It does no good to go over and over the endless possibilities, despite what Littlefinger had thought.  _ Everything you see will be something you have seen before.  _ Bullshit, had he seen his death? She somehow doubts it. 

Davos nods and then he speaks cautiously, “And the succession? Of the Stark line I mean?”

The question freezes Sansa in place, she had been taking another bite of cold stew and the spoon stops halfway to her mouth. She lowers it. And considers Davos. She wishes he would say what he means because he is the one who is studying her now, not Tyrion and Varys. She considers her answer carefully. 

“Well four of us still live at present so I see not why it matters, but if you insist,” Sansa speaks slowly, “To my knowledge Bran would be unable to bear children. And if my sister is still the same one I once knew, she will not want children, at least not for a very long time.”

Davos nods and his eyes continue to bore into her. 

“That leaves Jon and I,” Sansa says and immediately regrets her choice of words, “I suppose we will have to marry and produce heirs.”

Somehow her wording of the second half of her sentence only gets worse and Davos’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

Sansa flushes and stutters, “I didn’t mean–I only meant we would each marry other people. I didn’t–”

Sansa can tell by the look on Davos’ face that if she hadn’t reacted with such embarrassment and denial that he may have brushed it off. But she hadn’t. They sit in silence for a long time, both considering the other.

She has a great respect for Davos, after a rocky start to their relationship. She trusts the man more than most, and she knows that he would never betray them. But the look in his eyes right now has her sweating. After a few minutes he looks to his lap and speaks. 

“Do you love him? My Lady?” Davos' breath comes out in a hushed whisper, sounding almost defeated.

When he raises his head she knows her face is still shocked. There isn’t much that gets past this man and her body feels as if it has been flayed, over sensitive and reactive.

“Lord Davos, I–” Sansa starts with another stutter. 

Davos shakes his head and lets out a low chuckle, “I’ll defend you both to the death, even if it is against the gods, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised though considering his own–”

Davos is cut off by the door opening again. Sansa whirls in her seat and sees Lady Missandei standing there. 

“We expect their return soon, if you want to come and wait with us, my Lord and Lady,” Missandei says and bows her head. 

Sansa is thankful for the interruption but as they both stand and follow Missandei from the room she can’t help but wonder what it was that Davos had been about to say. ‘Considering his own what?’ He must be referring to Jon but what does it mean? Does Davos know something about Jon as well? Had he confided his parentage? Thoughts swirl as they exit the castle and descend to where the dragons will return shortly. 

* * *

But they do not return shortly. It is nearly three hours after the latest expected arrival time and they still haven’t returned. An hour after midnight and they still wait, growing rapidly colder in the blowing winds. Sansa’s been shaking for the past two hours yet it has nothing to do with the cold. Her nerves are utterly fried.

She hears murmurs from the others that they should turn in for the night. Tyrion, Varys and Missandei cite how Daenerys once disappeared for weeks in Essos. Which Sansa thinks reeks of poor leadership more than a reason to turn away. But even she must admit that waiting is futile. They have no way to reach them without dragons of their own, and they could be anywhere. Doing… anything. No. Sansa won’t let herself go there. 

Davos had joined her a while ago on her rock where she had taken up a post and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. He had whispered only one thing.  “He will return to you. He always does.”

It had warmed her slightly. Because Davos was not wrong. They had returned to one another in impossible circumstances. He had survived the Battle of the Bastards for her. He would survive this. She has to tell herself that. 

Just when Sansa is about to concede, when her lack of sleep is about to catch up with her and she is going to tell the others that they might as well pack it in, though she doubts she will be able to sleep, she hears it. Barely there at first, but coming closer. It sounds like flapping, like a bird. And then it hits her. Dragon wings.

She’s on her feet instantly, “Listen!”

Her voice startles everyone else and they stop talking immediately. Realization dawns on each of them slowly and in another thirty seconds there are two dark masses moving through the pitch black sky. Unclear in the night but also unmistakeable. A smile breaks out over Sansa’s face.

They all watch, a bit awed, and honestly a bit annoyed now that they know they are returned and that they had to wait so long, as the dragons descend. The moment the larger dragon touches down Sansa starts to feel that something is off. And then Sansa realizes that yes, only  _ two  _ dragons are here, the other remains circling the sky. 

Daenerys doesn’t emerge from behind her grounded dragon. The others all wait for a few seconds but Sansa starts to step forward. 

Faintly she hears Daenerys’ strangled voice, “Help! Help us!”

Sansa is running before her brain catches up to her body’s movements. When she reaches the back of the dragon she hears the others coming behind her and it gives her a moment to take in the scene before her.

Daenerys is half descended from the dragon’s back and to Sansa’s distress, Jon clings to her back. It takes her a moment to realize that he is injured. Unconscious even, and it sends her heart into a frenzy. She lets out a strangled sound of shock and then feels tears streaming down her face. She looks at Daenerys. The back of her coat is covered in blood, clearly from Jon. And Daenerys looks a mess, her hair undone and tear tracks as clear as day on her face. Sansa steels herself and starts to mount the dragon, only able to think about Jon. 

Daenerys’ voice comes out in harsh rasps, “The Night King. He was there. Like a trap. Jon got hit. We barely got out, Sansa. We need to help him. We need to help him now. He’s been unconscious for hours.”

The remaining blood drains from her face and she reaches them. She pulls Jon from Daenerys’ form and cries in earnest. She clutches him for one moment longer and then as if in silent agreement the two women work together to get him off of the dragon’s back. Below them the other’s wait in suspended horror. 

“Fetch medical assistance, prepare a room. Everyone you can spare, go!” Sansa practically shouts at the others.

Missandei, Varys, and Tyrion are all shocked for one moment and look to their Queen for confirmation, not sure what to do with Sansa taking charge of the situation. Daenerys nods weakly at them. 

“Go, I’ll be fine. We need to help Jon,” She says and collapses to the ground where they have laid Jon down. The three of them hurry off. 

Davos spares them one glance and he must see the desperation in Sansa’s eyes because he nods at her and follows after them, breaking into a near run. 

Sansa bends over Jon as she listens to Daenerys’ laboured breaths in the background. The journey home must have been traumatic enough and it’s all coming out now. 

“I thought he was dead, I thought he was going to die,” Daenerys sobs behind her. 

Sansa takes Jon’s face in her hands and bends her forehead to his, closes her eyes.

I won’t let you die Jon, she thinks, a silent promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I hope you enjoyed part 2, it was so fun for me!
> 
> I just love the idea of this story and I'm not trying to gas myself up but the more I wrote this the more I wish it happened on the show lolol.
> 
> Uh, so one thing, Davos obviously treats Sansa and Jon differently here in their 'confrontations' I think it speaks to his differing relationships with the two of them and the fact that he talked to Jon first, hence his acceptance once he realizes things on Sansa's side (especially after 'catching' them) but without his POV i just wanted to make that clear since it may have come across odd. Also what Davos was going to say was "his own feelings" re: he knows Jon and Sansa are reciprocal in their feelings. 
> 
> And lastly! Good news! Part 3 is already complete but it will take some time to edit but hopefully a week? Maybe a week and a half? (It is 31k right now so it is ALOT) look forward to it :)
> 
> And as always, I love to discuss things in the comments with you all. Love to you all!


	3. blaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the increase in rating for this chapter.
> 
> I am sorry this took longer than I expected to edit but I needed a break before returning to this fic...That being said I hope the conclusion is thrilling and was well worth the wait!

**run away with my love**

_“A heart to love, and in that heart/Courage, to make’s love known”_

William Shakespeare, _Macbeth,_ Act II Scene III

 **iii.** blaze

Two days. It has been two days and Jon still sleeps under a pain shrouded veil. Sansa thinks she may lose her mind, she can barely eat, she can’t sleep. She can’t do anything productive. She’s been assured that Jon will wake soon, his body just needs time to heal. The Maester said that it was because of the laborious journey home that the trauma was made worse. Jon and Daenerys’ abrupt departure had not given the Queen a chance to staunch any bleeding. 

They were lucky the arrow had stayed in the hole and that the blood had clotted enough that he didn’t bleed out on Drogon’s back. The possibility keeps coming to Sansa when she is at her lowest and it is enough to make her body vibrate, threatening convulsions. Just how close it had been. 

She isn’t angry at Jon, she’s not righteous in being right about this. No, she is defeated because she has nothing to be victorious about, she knew the dragons were a bad idea and yet she had been unable to articulate the reason why. That wasn’t a problem anymore. The risk had nearly taken the North’s King. Had nearly taken Jon. Her Jon. And that is more unbearable than the inevitable political upheaval that his death would’ve caused. The personal pain outweighing the public, a thousand times over. Because with Jon dead did she wish to endure any longer? Would her body not give out? Tired of fighting. No longer having her one centre point to depend on. 

By the time she had reached the Wall she had been ready to collapse, unsure what she would’ve done if Jon was not there. She feared the worst. And then seeing him. It had invigorated her. Set every nerve afire and they hadn’t burned out since. Being with him, fighting together, was enough to pull her through anything. She knew it was the same for him, he had been even more desolate when they reunited, having literally been killed and then coming back, coming back for what? To die on top of a dragon?

No, that was not his fate. Thank the gods. Bran’s words of Jon and Sansa’s importance in the wars to come ring heavy in her head and she ponders his meaning. Deep inside her mind she contemplates. Her and Jon had been so close that last night, close to diving in. Into each other. Is that what Bran had seen? Did he send Sansa with Jon to ensure these events were set into motion? It seems unlikely to her but she can’t bring herself to put anything past her brother who has been changed in ways she can’t even imagine. 

With nothing else to do Sansa comes back to this inner turmoil over and over. Because she hasn’t left Jon’s sick bed since they brought him in. She remembers it so vividly. Daenerys had eventually come to kneel by Sansa as they waited for help to arrive. The Dragon Queen was shaking all the while. Sansa had ripped her own furs to tie a tourniquet around Jon’s shoulder. It had been hours since the injury was sustained but she figured any slowing of the blood loss had to help. She had told herself this as a feeble prayer, one that she didn’t fully believe.

Tears had flown freely down Sansa’s face and she stroked Jon’s own, murmuring to him. Begging him to come back to her, she isn’t sure of all the exact words but she knows they were spoken by a woman beyond any reasonable desperation.

At one point she had finally looked at Daenerys and thought she saw a ghost. Jon had lost the blood but Daenerys’ skin was nearly translucent. Her lips quivered and she couldn’t tear her gaze from Jon’s face, seemingly frozen at the sight of him bleeding out. 

Sansa, still in her own spiral, had somehow been able to regard Daenerys more fully for a few seconds. She appeared as if she had just come from battle. The blood spreading across every area of her body, the worst on her back and then it worked its way up into her hair, which had whipped around and left streams of it all over her face and neck. She, for lack of any better word, looked haunted. And Sansa will never forget the only other words they exchanged out on the moors that night.

“I’m sorry Sansa, I’m so sorry. It was at my insistence we went North, I–” Daenerys’ voice came out in a breathy whisper, threatening to spill into tears.

Sansa had torn her gaze from Jon and spoke clearly.

“You brought him back to me. I can ask no more of you Daenerys,” Sansa said solemnly. 

It was likely the most vulnerable they would ever be with one another, Sansa reflected later. 

Minutes later the others returned with Maesters and several strong Dothraki who hoisted Jon up after a brief consultation that he would be stable enough to move. 

When they had arrived back at the castle they got Jon to a chamber they had others prepare and the Maesters got to work. His outer layers came off and then his shirt. For them to get at the wound. At his exposed skin Sansa had heard a soft gasp come from Daenerys.

Belatedly, Sansa realized it was not the arrow wound, which Sansa herself was taking in, that Daenerys stared at. No, she had seen his scars from the men of the Night Watch. Sansa gave her a withering look, it was not the time.

“You were serious, about him dying,” Daenerys breathed and raised a hand as if she wanted to stretch out and reach the scar which laid over his heart. Black and deep, after all this time. 

Sansa had only given a terse nod.

After Daenerys’ comments the Maesters had demanded space as they worked and as they were forced out of the room, Sansa had to endure the longest hour of her life. She had only gone to change quickly and returned to stand vigil outside the door. 

Davos was her only comfort, steady in his silence but there for her through it all regardless. Daenerys took the time to change and took a bath as well. She had returned to the hall and then almost hesitated once she saw Sansa there, as if she was out of place. Good, Sansa had thought viciously, this is not her territory. But upon remembering that Daenerys was the reason Jon was even here, she softened slightly. She would allow it for now. 

And that is how it has been since. The Maesters had allowed them into the room where Jon slept and Sansa and Daenerys took up a now joint vigil at his side. Neither of them leaving for the last two days. Trading time dozing off in their respective chairs. Not talking. Interrupted only by the Maesters coming to check on him, they were not concerned but their visits became more frequent as the hours stretched into two days. Davos and Daenerys’ own advisors checked in from time to time as well, but nobody stayed long. 

Sansa knows Jon needs to wake up soon though, without foods and liquids he will fade. This is the key time for him to rise, if he will at all. 

The morbid thought crosses her mind at the same time that Daenerys says her first full sentence since their watch had begun. 

“I care for him, Sansa,” Daenerys says as if far away, “I do not know why, and against my better judgement but I am drawn to him all the same.”

Daenerys’ presence had been a nuisance, Sansa had wished she had been able to drag her out of the room. If it wasn’t for the dragons this never would’ve happened. (Her softness from two nights ago long gone by Daenerys’ continued hovering). But she had been able to ignore her up until this point and focus on Jon alone. Daenerys’ current words are like a dagger straight to the heart, twisting, striking.

Sansa takes in a sharp inhale of breath and turns her neck to where Daenerys sits. 

“I asked him to marry me,” Daenerys admits, “When we stopped to rest on our journey.”

Sansa thinks she must be the one who looks ghostly white now because she hasn’t been breathing at all. Daenerys doesn’t seem to notice though and goes on ahead, oblivious to Sansa’s discomfort and slowly simmering rage. 

“He rebuffed me, quite fiercely. And yet when I thought he was dying…” Daenerys lets out a cold laugh and trails off, turning her wide eyes to Sansa finally.

Sansa takes several seconds to settle the storm that her thoughts have become.There is just so much information for her to take in. 

“I didn’t think you were the marrying type,” Sansa manages to get out, she doesn’t know how she does it exactly but she does. It comes out more as a choked cough than anything else.

Daenerys turns her head back to Jon, an expression of discontent coming across her features. 

“No, I suppose I’m not. And still…”

“Jon is not either,” Sansa says, regaining her composure, “The marrying type I mean.”

Daenerys flicks her gaze to Sansa then, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Sansa has no clue what Daenerys means by her obscure words but she doesn’t like the implication that she knows something Sansa doesn’t. Surely Jon isn’t the marrying type? He fears having a family as much as he longs for it, of this she is sure, having been raised a bastard all his life. But could something or better yet, _someone_ make Jon the marrying type? Not Daenerys apparently. Sansa gulps.

And then, as if the clouds are parting a grey overcast sky, Sansa looks down and sees that Jon is waking up. She leans into the bed and clutches his hand instantly. Daenerys follows suit across the bed, but to Sansa’s relief her hand doesn’t grip Jon’s other one. 

“Jon. Jon can you hear me?” She speaks gently.

And then she looks to Daenerys, “Go get a Maester!”

Her voice is not rude but it is firm and Daenerys is momentarily taken aback by being commanded in her own castle. 

Sansa doesn’t care in the moment, “Go!”

Daenerys hesitates one second longer and then flies from the room. Sansa returns her attentions back to Jon. He is fluttering his eyes and seeming to take in his surroundings. Tears spring to Sansa’s own eyes. 

“Sansa?” Jon says, his voice hoarse and dry from disuse and lack of water.

On instinct she reaches for the glass on his bedside table. 

“I’m here Jon, you’re okay. You’re safe now,” Sansa says through her tears and presses the glass to Jon’s lips. 

He is startled for a second but then drinks greedily. Sansa’s hand is still gripping Jon’s tightly.

She removes the cups and they stare at each other for several moments then. Jon closes his eyes and shakes his head. He reopens them and speaks.

“What happened? I remember?” Jon says with confusion, “The Night King? Viserion is gone? Where am I?”

Sansa minds races as tears still fall at how good it is to hear his voice. Viserion? Daenerys’ other dragon? She remembers blearily that only one dragon had been circling the sky that night but Daenerys had made no mention of it, was one of the dragons slain? 

“You were shot through with an arrow. You’re back at Dragonstone, Daenerys got you back. But just rest now, everything is fine Jon,” Sansa says with reassurance and then finally wipes her tears. 

Just as Jon moves to speak again the room is bustling with two Maesters and Daenerys. Then the two of them are both being ushered from the room before anything more can happen. But Sansa sees an expression of shock flicker on Daenerys’ face as she takes in Jon’s conscious form. Jon’s expression that he regards Daenerys with is indecipherable. Despite this, Sansa thinks she dislikes it all the same.

* * *

Sansa feels exiled. Another week has passed and she has seen Jon for mere minutes and never alone. The Maesters were being a bit overly strict in her opinion. They were insisting Jon needed peace and quiet to rest and heal. Sansa thought harshly that _she_ could bring him that peace. But to Sansa’s distress she was unable to do anything about the current position because Daenerys was in agreement with the Maesters. This meant that Daenerys wasn’t seeing him either, but still, it frustrates her.

Although Sansa has to admit that she has been busy herself since Jon had awoken. Taking two days off her duties had given them a lot to come back to as they prepare for the coming battle. She was overseeing the mining operations and making sure that they get all the dragonglass they can, as quickly as they can. And then making sure that it starts making its way to Winterfell to get forged to weaponry. 

On top of this, Brienne had made her way to where their armies waited to attack Highgarden with Daenerys’ forces. She had written many letters coordinating plans to Brienne and relaying what their timeline was looking like. In truth, now they were just waiting for Jon to recover and they would be off. A selfish part of Sansa wished that he was more seriously injured so that he could stay away from the fighting completely. But that was unfair. To their people and to Jon. 

They were having a final war council in a few hours and the Maesters had cleared Jon for it. Sansa found it unbearable that her first proper time seeing him would be to discuss battle plans for a battle that Jon himself didn’t even want to be a part of, though she hoped that maybe seeing the Night King again had recommitted him to their plans, knowing they needed Daenerys’ dragons to end him once and for all. More likely though it would make Jon think that all of this is futile and they should go North and fight now instead. 

And that reminded Sansa. The dragons. Yes. She had learned quite a bit about that since she had vacated Jon’s room. Viserion had fallen, taken out by a massive spear from the Night King. Daenerys had relayed this without emotion at their first war council meeting. Two dragons were still mighty though and they didn’t have any major concerns moving forward with their plans. 

But Sansa had seen the hollowness with which Daenerys spoke. She spoke with the pain Sansa had felt when they had killed Lady. It was not an easy thing, to lose these dear yet beastly animals. Sansa suspects that Daenerys had put aside her grief momentarily while Jon was in peril but based on her actions since then, she grieved fiercely now for the dragon she regarded as a child of her own. 

Often, Daenerys was not found anywhere and if Sansa inquired about her absences to Tyrion or Missandei she was left with evasive answers and responses about their Queen needing rest. When she compared notes with Davos he reported the same thing. Surely the loss of a dragon was horrific but they were also at war, Daenerys’ war, she hoped their Dragon Queen did not forget that. 

Their one moment of kinship on the moors had been long forgotten in the intervening week. 

Still. Something worried Sansa about the entire series of events. First, how quickly the Night King had fell one of the dragons. Sure they had been caught unawares, but if they depended on them so heavily to defeat him and he had already taken one down… Well. Sansa didn’t like to think about the odds. Secondly, Sansa wondered, privately, if this meant that the Night King now had a dragon of his own. If he could raise the dead, surely that didn’t stop just because it was a dragon and not a human or some other animal, right? It plagued her but she didn’t voice it at the war councils which were rapidly consuming all her time. Not even to Davos. No, she would raise the concern with Jon when she had the chance and they would decide together how to proceed. 

The only other thing of note that had happened in the last week was the return of one Ser Jorah Mormont. 

It had been a tense meeting when Sansa was finally introduced. But more so for him, she thought. The disgraced man who was sentenced by her own father ages ago coming to stand by the Dragon Queen was perhaps the least surprising thing to Sansa. Like flocks to like. Maybe that is too harsh though. Jorah had been kind. He had apologized and recounted his own sins against the North, followed by how he hoped to be able to make it up to the new Starks of Winterfell and work towards restoring faith with House Mormont.

Sansa had only said coolly, “Lady Lyanna Mormont has already restored our faith as one of our most ardent supporters in reclaiming the North under Stark rule and asserting the independence of the Northern Crown.”

Sansa’s words had left Jorah stunned into silence, clearly unsure how to respond. After all, when you are a Northman supporting the woman who wants to take the North’s independence, what defense can you have? Sansa had held him in her gaze for a long time, she barely knew him but she thought, based on the little that she did know, that he must be a coward.

He fled his fate and then found the most powerful person he could before he ever returned to Westeros. And as Sansa had waited to hear a response from this man, none other than Daenerys Targaryen came to his aid, as he must know she always would. 

“Lady Sansa, I understand the strife between Ser Jorah and House Stark, but trust me when I say he has repaid his sins a thousand times over. In my service he has become my most trusted advisor and he would lay down his life for me, as I would for him,” Daenerys had stepped a little too close for Sansa’s liking while she said this. 

And when Daenerys had then gone onto a long and detailed history of Jorah’s time in her company, well, Sansa had largely tuned that out. She just stood there in disbelief that Daenerys could equate Jorah’s servitude to herself as payment for what he did in the North. It made so little sense but she had come to expect it at this point.

As Sansa finishes her contemplations she realizes that she should be making her way to the war room for their final meeting. At least she will get to see Jon, she thinks idly as she checks herself in the small mirror the room has been provided with.

Her hair is pulled into two tight braids starting from the front of her scalp that work back to twist into an elaborate bun. The bottom half of her hair is hung in loose curls. She finds the style a bit ridiculous honestly, too frilly for her Northern sensibilities. She had worn similar but less extravagant styles on occasion before but she had decided to start imitating Daenerys’ many styles in an effort to soften Daenerys to her going forward, maybe she would think that Sansa admired her, even if her actions and words thus far said otherwise.

Her hair may be Targaryen inspired but her clothes are all Northern. She hadn’t brought many dresses from the North but the one she wears now is her favourite. It has a fitted bodice of dark grey velvet with an embroidered pattern of leaves woven through in a subtly different shade of grey. It creates a shimmering effect. The arms are long and the neckline high, but it swoops down in the back, exposing her neck and just the tops of her shoulders. The skirt is simple, black and straight with some navy embroidering along the bottom in a simple repeating pattern. And then she has her furs, standard black but warm and protective as they ought to be. She takes one final glance, tucks a lock of hair behind her ears and heads out.

Davos, to Sansa’s surprise, waits in the hall for her.

“My Lady,” He says and joins pace with her.

He hasn’t broached the subject he brought up on the night Jon returned since that first time and she is thankful for it. She has had too much to do to worry about Davos’ perceptions. Not to mention the fact that since she hadn’t seen Jon at all she would only bring herself misery to examine her feelings too closely. Though she supposes that it is probably something she will be unable to avoid much longer, one way or another. 

“Do you think we’ll just solidify the plan then today?” Davos asks conversationally.

Sansa grimaces, “I suppose we must. We won’t delay now that Jon has been cleared with a bill of health, though I hate to think of him going out to battle so soon again. And everything is mostly in place anyways. I think she mainly intends this as a review session and to catch Jon up to speed.”

Davos nods and Sansa notices that he looks a bit nervous.

“I had a thought and I was just wondering if you think–” He starts but gets caught off by a call from down the hall. 

“Lord Davos, Lady Stark. Let me join you,” Lord Varys catches their attention..

She has seen little of Varys since their arrival here and it strikes her as odd that he flags them down now. From what she knows of him he is more like to slink behind them and listen in on their conversation. Instead, they wait for him to catch up and then they all set off together. 

“I realize we haven’t seen much of each other Lady Stark, but I wanted to make a point of apologizing to you,” Varys inclines his chin to Sansa.

She has to raise an eyebrow to that. Varys never fails to leave more questions than he answers. 

“I once brushed you off quite cruelly while talking to Lady Olenna Tyrell, believing you below my notice. ‘A babc in the woods’ I think I said. I see now that I made a grave error in that line of thought,” Varys says.

The words are slippery. In about a hundred different ways. Sansa would never have known about Varys’ conversation with Lady Martell unless he told her now. Bringing up the Tyrells to her could be its own ploy. And then he attempts to stroke her ego. Varys has always had an angle and Sansa doesn’t want to give him any gained ground from this exchange. She puts on a charming smile instead.

“No harm done Lord Varys. I likely was below most people’s notice when I resided in King’s Landing. Though I suppose much has changed,” Sansa says and shows her teeth but in docility, not to frighten. 

Varys considers her as they continue to walk and Sansa can see Davos watching the two of them quite closely.

“I wonder what Cersei Lannister would say if she could see you now,” Varys says just as they reach the war room.

The words sap the life out of her. She hates to think of the woman, even now. And she imagines that Varys knows that well enough. Though it is why the words ring true. What would Cersei think if she could see her now? It is a question in futility because she doubts she will ever see the horrid woman again, at least she hopes against hope that she will never have that particular misfortune. 

Davos opens the door and the three of them step inside, all thoughts of Cersei Lannister exiting her mind when she looks around and to her surprise sees Jon already seated at the table. 

He looks more alive than Sansa could have imagined he would be when she saw him a week ago. The glimpses she had had since then hadn’t done much to improve her outlook. But now he sits and talks with Grey Worm, the military commander of the Unsullied that had returned to Dragonstone after the Casterly Rock debacle.

The rest of the room is full. Tyrion is there on Jon’s other side, followed by Missandei as well. Daenerys sits at the head of the table next to Missandei and Jorah is to the far side of his Queen. Varys goes to take his seat next to Jorah but Sansa still only has eyes for Jon. She must look like a little girl out of a love song but she hardly cares. Her heart rate picks up and her whole body seems to swell with joy at seeing him so completely whole, whole and mostly unharmed. 

Just then Jon notices their arrival and his head turns, his eyes find hers immediately. They only stay there, locked in a moment, for less than a second but it feels like everything to her, the rest of the room fades away as she sees his eyes light up at the sight of her, his mouth pulling up into a genuine smile and his eyes crinkling too. 

Ignoring everyone else in the room Jon pushes back his chair and stands up. He takes several long strides and then engulfs Sansa in a hug. She is so shocked it takes her a few seconds to respond but then she is wrapping her arms around him and clutching his cloak as if for dear life. She holds back her tears but only barely. 

“I came back,” He whispers and then releases her. 

Sansa smiles at that. They are safe and together again, they will fight this battle and go North and they will see Bran and Arya. The way forward is simple and she beams. Then she realizes the rest of the room is watching them. Looks of kindness but general disinterest on Missandei, Grey Worm, and Jorah’s faces. A far too perceptive look on Ser Davos’ face and carefully neutral expression on Tyrion and Varys’ faces, which worries her slightly but she doubts it means anything to them. They all know she hasn’t properly seen Jon since his Dragon flight.

And then there is a cool, half hidden, look of annoyance in Daenerys’ features and it is she who breaks the silence that has cloaked the room.

“Shall we begin?” Daenerys asks and commands everyone’s attention back to her. 

Davos, who had still been standing, goes to sit in one of the unoccupied seats and Sansa makes to follow him. What she isn’t expecting is that Jon follows her, deserting his seat by Grey Worm in favour of an empty one by hers. Her stomach seems to drop to her feet and she hopes that her glee isn’t evident on her face. She knows that it isn’t the most polite thing for Jon to do, but the thought of him not wanting to be parted, even by a few chairs, is enough for her in the moment. 

Further annoyance flickers across Daenerys’ face but she doesn’t comment. 

“So as we all know by this point, the goal is to liberate those in Highgarden and take out the Lannister forces, as swiftly and efficiently as possible,” Daenerys begins.

And the specifics of explanations take the better part of an hour. Sansa has heard it all so many times that she largely tunes the chatter out. Jorah and Grey Worm both pipe in on military strategies and Jon has some questions about the North men’s role on the battlefield that are answered easily but there isn’t really anything new brought about and as Sansa predicted it is mainly a recap of all their previous planning. 

Finally Sansa thinks they are near ending when Daenerys brings up something unexpected. 

“Lastly, I would like to discuss the dragons,” Daenerys says, perfectly calm. 

Sansa thinks nobody in the room breathes. Because after losing Viserion Daenerys had complied easily and said she would keep the dragons off the battlefield but on hand if absolutely necessary. Why would she need to bring it up now if the plan hadn’t changed? Sansa is suddenly alert and she sees similar expressions on all those in the room.

“I thought we had decided on using them as a last resort, Your Grace?” Tyrion says with a tone that suggests he doesn’t merely _think_ but that he is absolutely positive of the fact. 

Daenerys clasps her hands in front of her. 

“I would like to bring the option back to the table,” Daenerys says and again waits for someone to challenge her on this. 

To Sansa’s surprise it is Jon. 

“The option of what exactly Daenerys?” Jon asks with extreme skepticism and a hint of exhaustion. 

Daenerys’ eyes light up as if she had been waiting to have the opportunity to bring this up for ages. Sansa wonders if that was her plan, conceding in the beginning only to pounce on them later in the planning when they were all much more weary. 

“I think bringing the dragons out, at least as a deterrent, could work in our favour to expedite a swift surrender,” Daenerys says, and Sansa can tell she is trying to keep the excitement out of her tone. 

Sansa knows it is a ploy. She doesn’t believe that Daenerys cares about a swift surrender, but it is a hard argument for them to fight against. 

“Just so I’m clear, Your Grace,” Varys says, “Only as a deterrent and not as a weapon?”

Daenerys’ eyes sharpen into slits.

“Anyone I burn would be out of utmost necessity of course,” Daenerys says through gritted teeth.

It seems they have struck a nerve. Sansa was right.

“I think our Khaleesi is wise in this, having but not utilising the dragons would be a tactical mistake,” Ser Jorah speaks up and Sansa resists the urge to roll her eyes. 

The woman could say she was going to behead him and he would still come to her defense. From Sansa’s side she can feel tension rippling through Jon’s body. She spares a glance at him just as he opens his mouth. 

“Wise? You think it wise to jeopardize the only two remaining weapons we have to ensure a victory against the Night King on a battle that we will easily win in the field?” Jon’s voice is barely restrained from the idiocy he clearly thinks these people are exuding. 

Daenerys’ group considers him. To Sansa’s surprise there isn’t anger on Daenerys’ face though, she almost looks eager. 

“You’re right Jon, it is a risk. But it will minimize the death toll if we can scare them into submission. Isn’t that something you value?” Daenerys says and she knows she has trapped him.

Jon doesn’t give her a response, just keeps his gaze stony. Sansa decides to speak up.

“Surely one dragon could do just as much intimidating as two. And if you are controlling Drogon than it is less likely that he could be brought down,” Sansa says.

Daenerys scoffs, “I doubt that anything the Lannisters have cooked up could fall one of my dragons but you raise a fair point that with a rider the dragons are at less of a risk.”

Sansa realizes where Daenerys is going a second before anyone else does and she clenches her fists in anticipation.

“Which is why I would like Jon to join me on Rhaegal.”

Sansa is biting hard on her tongue, she draws blood and feels it spill and mix in with her saliva. She imagines if she smiles she would look like a wolf fresh with its kill. Blood dripping gruesomely. Her nostrils flare as she takes several steadying breaths and everyone else lets the words she has spoken sink in. 

Missandei’s delicate features have turned to one of surprise. Jorah is giving a slight nod and Grey Worm is impassive. Tyrion looks weary with the entire discussion and Varys deeply contemplative. Davos, Sansa realizes, looks resigned. And she suddenly recalls the question he almost posed her before Varys interrupted them. She thinks that he had predicted this but had been unable to warn or prepare her ahead of time. Pity, she might have just insisted her and Jon leave immediately instead of submitting themselves to another mess of dragons. 

Sansa turns her eyes to Daenerys and is sickened by the look of triumph she sees there. So finally she turns to Jon, scared and hesitant to what she will find when she does. 

And it only takes Sansa one second to know that Jon is going to agree to ride Rhaegal. One second and she knows him this well that he doesn’t even have to look at her. The slump of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, tell her all that she needs to know. Jon feels indebted. Daenerys saved his life and he knows that to deny her this now, is a bad show of faith and also outright dishonourable. Well screw honour. Sansa hates it, she despises being at the mercy of this woman. And she refuses to let this agonizing silence continue on any longer. 

“You can’t be serious,” Sansa says, still reeling and rises up out of her seat. 

Daenerys is eerily calm and it’s a tad unnerving, “Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

Sansa gapes, “Jon just sustained a very serious injury and endured hours on dragon back for you and you want him to ride into battle on one? Is there nothing you won’t stop at?”

Daenerys arches an eyebrow.

“For the Iron Throne? Nothing.”

Daenerys’ falsely sweet voice repulses her. And she is still so calm, more in control than Sansa has ever seen her. A far cry from the woman who nearly weeped while telling her she had proposed to Jon, or who had admitted in her grief that she was wrong for making them go North. Was this some sort of punishment for Jon’s rejection? A wicked game indeed. It has been nothing but wicked games and twisted lies since they arrived on Dragonstone and she has long grown sick of it. Sansa thinks she will have to come to play her own games if they are to ever gain the upper hand. 

Jon reaches for Sansa’s arm then as she still stands, hands splayed on the table. 

“Sansa, it’s alright,” Jon says soothingly and pulls her arm to try and get her to sit back down, “I’ll do it.”

Sansa rips her arm away from him and she whips around to face him, breathing heavy.

“Everything is far from alright!” Sansa says and her words ring out across the room. 

She stands in silence for a few seconds and then she storms from the room, not pausing to take in the reactions of the people she leaves in her wake. Suddenly caring little about what any of these people think at all. She refuses to be a pawn in Daenerys Targaryen’s games any longer.

* * *

Jon feels as if he is preparing himself for battle when a few hours later he readies himself to go to Sansa’s chambers and talk to her. After her outburst the rest of them had finished talking about the battle for about another hour and solidified the dragon plan.

Jon couldn’t say he liked it, he actually emphatically hates the entire idea. But Sansa had pledged them to this battle and Jon must do what he can now to appease Daenerys. Because she hadn’t said it in so many words, but Jon knew that it would not be above her to hold the fact that she saved him, over Jon’s head. It was just the type of thing she would think is okay to use for collateral.

On top of this, it is already late. Jon would’ve gone straight to Sansa’s chambers but Davos had insisted that he eat something to keep up his strength while he is still in the process of healing. Then the Maesters had wanted to check on him and they had told Jon in no uncertain terms that he needed to bathe again to keep the wound clean. All that had led to several hours passing before he could even begin to make his way to Sansa’s chambers, which as far as Jon knew, she had not left since this afternoon.

As Jon walks through the now empty castle, the hallways dark and only the barest of torches flickering and lighting his navigation, he remembers. After getting shot it had all been a flurry, their quick escape and subsequent fleeing from the far North. In hindsight it had been foolish for Jon to allow something like this to happen but he had really thought that Daenerys would back out of their deal without seeing the actual wights and so he had conceded defeat. But there was no excuse for his continued stay in the North after they hadn’t found the armies straight away. He should’ve sensed some trickery there, should’ve known that the Night King was toying with him. Now one of Daenerys’ dragons was lost and the dead were days closer to attacking than they had been before, while Jon wallowed in a sick bed. Stupid.

But he could remember more glimpses. He had been unconscious but he thinks he must’ve been on the cusp of waking because he heard yelling and he swears he heard Sansa’s voice. Though he can’t remember the words she spoke. After that he remembers waking once while being treated for his wounds but the Maesters gave him something quickly that put him under fully. Then there was only darkness. Not a chilling and all encompassing nothing like when he had been killed, no nothing would compare to that horror. This was more a lapse in time, not sleeping or not waking merely ceasing for a while and letting his body heal. In truth there was some peace in the endeavour. 

Then he remembers waking and Sansa’s face, only her face. It was almost like dreaming then, as if he had been given too much goodness in that moment, far more than he knew he ever deserved. But she was there and then Jon had questions yet far too quickly she was being taken from him and in his stupor he didn’t understand, he only felt a dull and constant ache like something vital to his life had been removed, an arm or a leg, something that had become fixated that no longer was. 

And that had been it. He had heard her try to gain access a few times, or seen her pass by his door. She’d managed to come in once with a Maester for maybe two minutes. But mostly the Maesters had been insisting on quiet healing time. Jon had argued too, insisting that Sansa would not inhibit his rest, he even tried to barter saying they wouldn’t talk that he would just have her presence in the room but they were unrelenting. Saying that the Dragon Queen wanted nothing but the highest level of care for him. The fact that Daenerys was behind this move had deflated him quickly, he knew he could not argue the point with her from his sick bed. 

Though the Dragon Queen _had_ paid him one visit, about halfway through his stay. He supposed that when you were the Queen you were able to bend your own strict rules. It had been a short visit though, Jon had been grumpy and testy when she came, half expecting Sansa when the doorknob turned only to find Daenerys’ shocking white hair.

“I know I’m not supposed to be here but I had to see you,” Daenerys said while shutting the door quietly, as if she had snuck in and didn’t just ask her Maesters to move. 

Jon didn’t reply. Daenerys came to sit and pulled a chair up right next to him. 

“I’m so happy you live, Jon, if you had died…” Daenerys paused and looked at him sorrowfully, “I don’t know how I would live with myself.”

Jon thought quite well probably, considering human life seemed to mean little to her in all other regards. But he remembered her proposal before everything had gone to shit. How is she still so endeared to him though after that mess? 

Daenerys, of all things, fluttered her lashes. 

“I believe you now Jon, the dead. They are an enemy we have to face together,” Daenerys said this with resolve and Jon allowed the tiniest relief to flood his body. At least some good came from this venture. 

When Jon still didn’t reply, Daenerys stood and made to leave. 

“Was it worth the loss of Viserion?” Jon asked.

He didn’t know what enticed him to provoke her such. It wasn’t kind, it bordered on rude but he had to know. Would it not have been better to just believe him in the first place and still have all her dragons?

Daenerys paused but kept her back to him. 

“I have learned a lesson with Viserion, one I am not soon to forget. My dragons are not unstoppable Jon,” Daenerys said and then left the room.

As Jon approaches Sansa’s door now he gives his head a shake at Daenerys’ words. How had she learned any lesson if she was still insisting on bringing both her dragons into a battle where they were completely unnecessary? It baffled him.

Jon, on habit, reaches for Sansa’s doorknob, but he shouldn’t have been surprised when he finds it locked. He sucks in a breath. And then knocks. 

At first there is silence and Jon thinks that maybe she has gone to sleep, or maybe she simply will refuse him entry. Jon could live with that even if it would split something deep within him. He has grown far too accustomed to Sansa never denying him anything, to always giving and always accepting. It was an unspoken pact between them, that their togetherness was something nobody was allowed to break. If Sansa stopped that now, Jon didn’t want to think about going on without her.

But then he hears shuffling on the other side of the door and a click of the lock. The door opens slowly to reveal Sansa. 

There are several moments where they just stand there. Jon can see the firelight roaring from within and he suspects she was sitting in front of her fire based on the chair he can see. But mostly he just sees her. She is dressed in the simple but beautiful dress she had worn to the war council but she has removed her braids, good Jon thinks, they were too like Daenerys’ and not at all the ones he knew that Sansa favoured that were soft and gentler. These were too harsh for her pretty face. 

Her face which is pale in a way that shows him how tired she truly is and Jon can still see the faintest hints of red rimming on her eyes, she had been crying, that much is clear, even if it wasn’t recent. And the thought unlocks something in Jon. He knows that it comes back to Daenerys, that she is the one putting them into these impossible situations. But part of it is his fault too, for agreeing to ride the dragons, for playing her game that puts his life in the balance. (For having Targaryen blood, he thinks before he can stop himself).

“You can come in,” Sansa’s voice is muted and she steps further into the room back to her chair by the fire.

Jon hesitates but follows, closing the door behind him and moving to grab the other chair. Pulling it maybe a bit too close to Sansa’s but sitting all the same. It seems unimportant suddenly that this is there first true time alone since their near intimacy. So much has passed since then that they leave it unspoken. 

For several minutes they both stare deeply into the fire. Jon wonders what Sansa sees there, because for Jon all he can see is Rickard and Brandon Stark being burned alive by the Mad King Aerys. Consciously for the first time Jon realizes that his one Grandfather burned his other Grandfather alive. Some classical tragedy of a song, he muses, even as the thought disgusts him. He is overcome by it. 

“Aerys was my Grandfather,” Jon says out of nowhere.

It is clearly the last thing Sansa expected him to say and it catches her off guard. She just says, quite unlady like, “What?”

“Aerys burned Rickard Stark. My other grandfather. Everyone talks about familial history in Westeros but I must have them all beat,” Jon says, trying to make light of it. 

Sansa looks desperately sad though and to his surprise she reaches for his hand. Jon stares at it for a few seconds and then looks up at her. 

“Oh Jon,” she sighs, melancholy, “Your life is so much more than a tragic past and laborious fighting. It will be more. You deserve happiness when all this is done.”

Sansa holds his hand for a few more seconds and then lets go and turns back to the fire. This peace that has descended on them comes from the exhaustion of the fight they’ve been waging, they can’t find it in them to blame and fault one another when they understand the risks all too well. 

Even with her dropped hand he can’t look away from her though because at her words he realizes that he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want said happiness if it isn’t with her. Because through all of this he has never felt more alive than when he is with her, never felt more himself, or more safe. His pulse quickens. 

And then he remembers Bran’s words about their roles in this. Goddamn his little brother, could he not have been more specific? He said that the two of them were key players going forward but what did it mean? Bran’s words give Jon enough pause to stop him from doing something reckless, even as he recalls again how close he had been to kissing Sansa a week ago, but had it been what she wanted? She hasn’t brought it up again, though Jon admits there has been little opportunity. 

In the name of safety, Jon changes the subject. 

“You cant let her get to you like that,” His voice isn’t reprimanding, no it is full of care and concern.

Sansa tears her eyes from the fire.

“Should I instead just bow to her every whim as you seem to now Jon?” Sansa’s voice isn’t as harsh as her words, it is more wounded than anything. 

“Sansa you know I have to, Daenerys saved my life–”

“I thought you were dead Jon, I thought you were going to die,” Sansa’s voice is hollow and Jon sees the same haunted look in her eyes. 

Jon swallows, “I’m sorry Sansa. I’m so sorry.”

Sansa sighs then and closes her eyes, “I know it’s not your fault Jon. I’m not blaming you. But you came back half clinging to her covered in blood and unconscious, you didn’t wake for two days and I’ve not been allowed to see you since. It has been unbearable. I am… I am not myself.”

It is Jon’s turn to reach for her hand, catching it in his own and rubbing her thumb. 

“I begged you to be allowed access to my chambers until I realized it was Daenerys’ mandate the Maesters were following. Though she herself even snuck into my chambers one night,” Jon admits and he sees Sansa suck in a breath even as he continues to rub circles with his own hand, “She spoke mostly nonsense about how she hated to see me so pained and I only asked her if it was worth losing Viserion over. But she has been swayed by our purpose in fighting the dead. All has not been for naught.” 

Sansa looks sadly at him and glances at their entwined hands. 

“Maybe you should’ve just agreed to her proposal and you wouldn’t have had to go North of the wall,” Sansa says and Jon’s hand stills in her. 

She seems to realize her mistake though as her eyes widen. 

“Daenerys just said, she said that she asked. I didn’t mean you should do something you don’t want. Assuming you don’t want to anyways. I just meant. I guess if you could’ve convinced her it’s what you wanted, you never would’ve been hurt,” Sansa finishes after sputtering and Jon lets her.

But he cringes at what convincing Daenerys would have entailed. 

He heaves a long sigh, “Davos said the same thing. Before I left, he suggested if Daenerys wanted to become… intimate, that I just go along with it.”

Sansa’s eyes go impossibly wide.

“I told you before we left Sansa, that nothing would entice me to the Dragon Queen’s bed, that remains truer than ever,” Jon speaks firmly, begging Sansa to see the truth.

She takes several seconds and then looks to her lap.

“I can’t lose you Jon,” Sansa says and it is so small, so hurt that he releases her hand.

He leans over to her and takes her chin in his hand, lifting her eyes to his. 

“Sansa you will never lose me. I swear to you. I survived an arrow and hundreds of miles on Dragon back to make it back here. I survived the Battle of the Bastards, for you and because of your aid. We will survive this, Hell I even–” Jon pauses and takes in the look on Sansa’s face and he decides to hell with it.

“I even came back from the dead Sansa. For you. I didn’t know it then. I felt lost and wandering but you came to Castle Black and gave me purpose, to fight for Winterfell. To fight for you.”

Tears pool in her eyes at his words and Jon feels some in his own eyes as well. Just as the tears break for both of them Sansa grips him to her and hugs him tight. Tighter even than he did today in the War Room for all those to see. She doesn’t sob and Jon pulls her closer to him, they both let a few tears fall and relish in the closeness to one another. No more words need to be spoken, not tonight.

Minutes later Jon will release her and they will sit in silence, watching the fire turn back to embers, both lost in their own thoughts of what is changing between them but both sure that they will face the oncoming storm together, as they have always done.

* * *

Sansa does not miss Dragonstone. The further they get from the island the more relaxed she feels, even knowing what is to come. Being out there, away from everything, it put her out of her element and it isolated her from the lifeblood of Westeros. It felt startlingly separate, as if she could fall into the sea and nobody would have known. Even though they don’t make their way North now, she feels grounded here.

(And she sincerely hopes that she will never have to see Dragonstone again, that her days are done there and that this part of her life can remain in the past).

Presently, they make their way to attack the Lannister forces. They aim to catch the armies unprepared, while they travel the food they have taken from the Reach. They all hope that without forewarning they will succumb quickly and the fighting won’t be much at all really. The plan is to end things and get out of there, exerting Daenerys’ power and placating her long enough to get her attentions solely on the Night King. 

Sansa sighs from her horse. At Daenerys’ request Jon rides in the front with her. Though she can tell by the set of his shoulders that he is getting little enjoyment out of the endeavour. Sansa had decided it best to let it pass and has spent the journey with Tyrion and Davos instead, not miserable company but Sansa wishes she could spend the time talking with Jon to take her mind off what he must do in the next hours. Because Sansa knows they are close now. 

At her sigh Tyrion glances over.

“Something the matter, Lady Stark?” Tyrion asks with a quirked brow.

Sansa yawns, “Battle is not something I enjoy.”

It should be obvious, considering her ineptitude for any part of it, but she detests this sort of fighting. The fact that Tyrion even has to ask it astounds her. 

Tyrion chuckles, “Well it is good that we will be safely out of the way when the real fighting starts.”

Sansa considers him and then says, “The real fight never ends, I would think you know that of all things Lord Tyrion.”

That silences him and earns her an impressed gaze from Davos. It pleases her, how she is able to turn the tables on Tyrion after years apart, she has come a long way from his former child bride. Yet when it comes to something like today they will both be on the sidelines. Davos as well, at Sansa’s request he will not join the battle. With Brienne and Jon endangering themselves she thought it best to keep at least one of her allies out of harm’s way. Besides, the battlefield won’t need him with all the other support they have, Davos is no young soldier. 

Another thirty minutes of riding later their group comes to a stop. Sansa rides up to where Jon and Daenerys are talking. Jorah and Grey Worm are with their Queen as well. Missandei and Varys had ridden ahead to set up a small series of tents for any potential injured that needed to be treated and they would oversee things from there. 

Davos and Tyrion trot behind her and when they approach she hears Jon speaking.

“The scouts say the Northern forces are just around this bend. We will join up with them and then it is just another few miles to where we will intercept the Lannister armies,” Jon says. 

His eyes linger on her halfway through when he sees her sidling up and it pulls at her heart. They will get no goodbye here today, only the brief one they shared back on Dragonstone. She tries to push down her fears at that.

“Jon and I will go to the dragons now,” Daenerys says and dismounts from her horse, “They’re nearby. Grey Worm, Jorah, I entrust you to lead our armies honourably henceforth. And we will see you on the battlefield.”

It is abrupt, too much so, Sansa feels. Though they have probably been discussing their strategies at length for the entirety of the journey, so Sansa accepts that this is all there is. No grand farewell.

Jon is dismounting as well, though slower and with more hesitancy. And when he does he walks over to stand between Sansa and Davos’ horses. He looks at Davos and she half expects him to command him to take her far away from here. Vaguely she sees Daenerys watching them from across their loose circle. 

Then Jon looks to both her and Davos, “Protect each other. Stay far enough back to remain out of the range of an arrow until the fighting has died down.”

Then Jon reaches for her hand and clutches it hard, from their angle the gesture is obscured by her horse and nobody can see it except for her and Davos, who doesn’t comment and actually pointedly looks away. 

“Be safe,” Sansa says and fights back tears, wishing she could jump off her horse and hold him to her, in case it is the last time. 

But then Jon is letting go of her hand and walking away. She follows his back all the way across the field, just before he disappears he turns back once and raises a hand to her, almost in salute. She returns the getsure with a bit of surprise, her mouth pops open slightly and she is still holding her hand in a wave when he turns back and vanishes from sight. 

As the rest of the armies start to go ahead to the Northern forces it is Tyrion who takes her out of her reverie.

“We should make our way to the back of the horde,” Tyrion says and starts to turn the smaller horse he rides. 

Sansa nods, distractedly, and does just that. They pull up the rear and start to hang back as Jorah and Grey Worm forge ahead with their armies. 

The three of them proceed in silence then and Sansa allows herself to get lost in a daydream, of nothing in particular, just to keep the nerves at bay. When they unite with the Northern forces Sansa is much too far back to see Brienne, much to her dismay, and there wouldn’t be time to find her and then return to Davos and Tyrion before the battle begins in earnest. She wishes she could see her and gain some reassurance for their carefully laid plans but alas. So she stays put. It’s Davos who interrupts her thoughts on the matter.

“Do you think your brother will be on the battlefield today Lord Tyrion?” Davos asks and it surprises Sansa because Davos is not one to often antagonize others and this makes Tyrion visibly tense almost immediately. 

“If I know my brother he will be in the thick of it,” Tyrion sighs, “And if I know my sister she will have begged him to let lesser men do the more meager work.”

Sansa has to agree with both statements but she doesn’t say anything. She knows too well that the fraught relationships of the Lannister siblings are built on years long grudges and hurt feelings. She can’t imagine how Tyrion feels now, sending his Queen into battle against his brother, despite any resentments there. She doesn’t envy him in this.

The armies are moving out and with them any sense of calm Sansa was fooling herself into thinking she has. She feels sweat starting to pool at the base of her spine. They wait for maybe ten agonizing minutes before they start to proceed forward to see how it is going. They can hear distant roars of battle. If everything is going to plan the armies would have come upon the Lannisters quickly.

Their horses reach the top of the hill overlooking the battlefield and it takes Sansa several seconds to take everything in. 

Dothraki, Unsullied, and Northerners are overpowering the Lannisters, but their army is nothing to ignore, they are putting up a valiant effort. There is chaos everywhere as the Lannisters abandoned their carts of food to take up arms. Sansa is swept up in the ebb and flow of the battle and suddenly she is recollecting standing on the precipice of another battle, Littlefinger at her side and finding Jon’s eyes, impossibly, across the fields. Just before she can think about how Jon is absent this time she hears the roar. 

Two dragons soar over the battlefield and Sansa watches as every single Lannister man looks up in both fear and amazement at the spectacle of it all. Sansa understands, it is unfathomable now to even think of the return of dragons and she has been surrounded by them for a month. To see them come against you on the battlefield must be something of the most sadistic nightmares. 

Sansa’s gut clenches though as she remembers how Jon rides one of them, how he is putting his life in peril just by being here and she gets off her horse, takes a few steps to the edge of the hill and watches. In fear and anticipation. She hears Tyrion and Davos do the same as they approach from behind. 

It continues for a few more minutes, Jon and Daenerys’ dragons circle but they don’t do much more. The battle continues and Sansa thinks it won’t be long until the Lannisters have to surrender or suffer unthinkable losses. It is while this thought is crossing her mind that she hears something whistling through the air. And in the blink of an eye she sees a huge arrow soaring, zooming, and narrowly missing Rhaegal. 

Sansa lets out a gasp. Even though she can’t see Jon from the ground she knows he must be feeling the same thing. And this had been Sansa’s fear. That the dragons could be felled, that they could be taken out, even by a man. And of course, leave it to Cersei to be in development of a weapon to take them out. She would be a fool not to when they are Daenrys’ greatest advantage. 

Sansa holds her breath as she waits for another whoosh of air. When it comes it goes wide and misses Drogon. Sansa lets out a breath knowing that it wasn’t aimed at Rhaegal. 

“They’re trying to take them out,” Davos says in near disbelief and Sansa just nods quickly, not tearing her eyes away.

“Cersei never ceases to amaze me,” Tyrion says, a bit awed and a bit fearful now that he knows his Queen isn’t as untouchable as he may have been thinking. 

Sansa realizes what is about to happen before it does. Drogon changes course, his body tenses and he comes closer to the ground. Sansa has a second to hope she is wrong before he opens fire on the battlefield. As fire rains down on a group of Lannisters she closes her eyes. But it doesn’t shut out the flames, they rise up even in her mind.

 _Burn them all._ It is what Aerys Targaryen had said. 

Stupid. Selfish. Unnecessary. There is no need. They never should’ve allowed Daenerys to take the dragons out onto the battlefield. Sansa sees Drogon rising and he rides closely to Rhaegal, close enough that she thinks that Daenerys must be talking to Jon. Trying to convince him to join? The thought comes and goes in an instant and she only seriously considers the possibility of Jon committing such an act for as long before she shuts down the idea. He would not stoop. Not when he understood the cost of such things. 

Davos and Tyrion seem too stunned to comment on the turn of events but Sansa is almost riveted, wondering how far the Dragon Queen can continue to fall now. Now that she has released the full power of her beasts. What she does next shocks even Sansa though.

Daenerys makes a turn, and Sansa sees Jon take Rhaegal higher, away from the battlefield as she does. (Thank the gods Sansa thinks, because arrows are still flying and the tension in her body hasn’t stopped since this madness began). And then Daenerys, inexplicably, as if in a blind rage, burns the carts of food. All of them. Catching more men in the same pass. 

White hot rage courses through Sansa’s veins and she wheels on the only available person who can answer for such senseless destruction. 

“This is your Queen? One who would burn food? Food for a Kingdom she hopes to rule?” Sansa’s voice shakes as she yells at Tyrion.

Davos looks on with growing concern. 

“She–She…” But Tyrion seems unable to articulate whatever defense he is trying to come to and Sansa can see by the lack of comprehension on his face that he doesn’t understand this either, that he thinks it just as purposeless as she does. That gives her at least some relief, Tyrion is not completely without sense now. 

Sansa marches closer to the battle, as they have pushed back there is a hill with a better vantage point and there are no protests behind her, just two sets of footfalls in place as they follow. Daenerys makes another pass to burn more soldiers as they do and the battlefield is soaked in blood by this point. Sansa can only wonder what will stop her when she hears Drogon screech. 

They all stop and stare. He has been hit through with one of the Lannister arrows. And Sansa thinks for several long seconds that he is going to fall, with Daenerys still on his back. He flies up, loses his balance and flails before coming down and regaining composure in time to burn down the massive launcher that wounded him in the first place. 

Drogon’s injury has sent Rhaegal storming back to his brother and Sansa stiffens with fear even knowing that the weapon has just been destroyed. Because she thinks that Jon must not have control right now if Rhaegal is back. She watches him intently as he circles and Drogon takes to the sky again.

The three of them look on as Daenerys lands nearby at a lake not far from them and she slides off Drogon’s back and then starts to try to remove the arrow from her dragon. Sansa is looking back to see where Rhaegal is when she hears Tyrion. 

“Jaime,” Tyrion’s voice is warning and he actually takes a step forward. 

Sansa follows his line of sight quick enough and sees Jaime, riding full tilt on his horse with a spear, straight towards Drogon and Daenerys. For those few seconds all concern for Jon is pushed from her mind. 

“The fucking idiot,” Tyrion breathes, “Jaime. Jaime don’t.”

Tyrion takes several more unaware steps forward as if to actually stop Jaime. In unison her and Davos both place restraining hands on his shoulders and hold him in place. There is nothing they can do now but watch this play out. In a matter of seconds it will be over. 

So much happens though. Sansa sees suddenly as an unmistakable figure stops on the battlefield, dozens of feet from them to watch. Brienne. Sansa’s chest aches. She knows, in pieces, the importance Jaime has played in her sworn shield’s life. And even from a distance she can tell Brienne is horrified. She imagines her calculating the distance between them and realizing that no matter how fast she rides she can’t do anything that will make a difference. She dismounts and removes her helmet. Her back is to Sansa but the set of her shoulders has Sansa wondering if she is crying. 

She turns back to Jaime’s impossible task and in the few remaining seconds Sansa finds herself hoping for the only outcome that is safe. As Jaime charges and Daenerys remains unaware she sees it all, Daenerys taken out, the wars coming to an end. Dealing with Cersei without the looming threat of Daenerys and her dragons. Defeating the Night King, a safe and free North. Years stretch out in her mind. Years of prosperity. Bran and Arya unharmed and the North growing in the wake of their new Starks. Winter melting and leaving them with a lush Spring. Then there is just Jon. Jon and time to talk, time to discover what they are to each other without Daenerys around to complicate it all. It rolls behind her eyes on a loop, potential decades compressing into a few heartbeats. 

But it comes crashing down when Drogon turns his head and flames go flying. She just sees someone intercepts Jaime at the last second. Sansa closes her eyes. It had been such a beautiful dream.

* * *

Ashes. They are surrounded by ashes. 

It is all that Jon can think of while he dismounts from his dragon. He hates thinking of Rhaegal like that now, after such a short time. But he cannot deny that the dragon is _his_ , obeying him right up until Drogon had gotten hit, then he had lost control. But not to Daenerys, no only to the primal bond of brother to brother. 

Jon slides to the ground and finds that his legs are shaking. Nothing truly terrifying had happened in the air, there had been one near miss with the arrow before they started taking aim at Daenerys and Drogon instead. But the devastation he had witnessed, that by not intervening he had become complicit in, it was reverberating through every part of his body now. 

This is not the type of King he wants to be, not one who aligns himself with a Queen who will burn her enemies for merely fighting back. Not when they have already lost. Not the type of Queen who burns food needlessly. 

Jon starts to walk aimlessly, looking for anyone. (Looking for Sansa if he can be honest with himself, though he hopes her far away. He can only imagine her pain at what has taken place today, something they weren’t able to put an end to). 

The food is what had done it. When she had risen back into the sky after her first pass and tried to demand that Jon join her he had denied her vehemently and flew away, in case she tried to command Rhaegal against Jon’s will. But could he have done more? If he had joined her in burning people would she have spared the food? He supposes it hardly matters now.

Just then, through the ashes clouding the air in thick tufts he catches sight of flaming red hair that can only be one person. He comes upon them quickly from behind; Sansa, Tyrion and Davos walk through the rubble, they appear just as numb as Jon feels. 

“She didn’t need to do this,” Sansa’s voice comes out distraught and at a loss for the senseless violence that has been left around them. 

Tyrion is looking all around them at the destruction. He looks dismayed, a shadow of the man he once was, Jon thinks. As if he is realizing just what he has done by bringing Daenerys Targaryen to Westeros. 

Jon calls out then, “Sansa.”

His voice is like a prayer, seeking her amongst the chaos. He loves the way her name always rolls off his tongue like the gods fashioned him just to speak it, to savour it. And her head turns slowly as she registers him. 

They stand there. Jon covered in ash but unharmed, if not a bit sweaty. Sansa, unruffled save for the ash swirling and landing in her red tresses. And Jon wishes he could collapse with her on the battlefield, forgetting all their responsibilities for a while longer. 

Instead, they embrace, both taking steps to meet in the middle. It is not long, it is not aching. It is merely a reassurance shared for the two of them. Despite no words passing between them he thinks they are both telling the other the same thing. _We will get through this day. We will not be remembered for our inaction here and instead our actions yet to come that will prevent this from happening over again._

It is all that keeps Jon vertical, this knowledge of a future to repair things. 

They release one another and the four of them continue to walk, the Lannisters have surrendered and there seems to be a congregation. Jon notices that both Drogon and Rhaegal have landed by a large outcropped rock. 

Slowly they approach in somewhat of a daze and see Daenerys standing there, winged by Jorah and Grey Worm first and then her dragons on the horizon. She is a Targaryen in all their glory, the image of every song and story the realm knows of the dynastic family of the last three hundred years. Jon swallows. He doesn’t want to know what is to come.

They have no choice but to join her. And so they do. Coming to stand beside her and await whatever justice she intends to deploy on the remaining soldiers. 

Jon and Sansa’s hands graze one another’s and Jon can tell their nerves are both mounting, Daenerys has shown what they have suspected for a while, today, and it seems it is not over.

Tyrion steps towards his Queen.

“Your Grace, my brother?” Tyrion asks with hesitation.

Daenerys seems annoyed and she purses her lips. 

“I have taken both him and the one called Bronn as prisoner. They are being heavily guarded. We will deal with them later,” She says with finality. 

Daenerys turns from Tyrion and steps forward. 

“I know what Cersei has told you. That I’ve come to destroy your cities, burn down your homes. Murder you and orphan your children,” Daenerys lets the words land.

“That is Cersei Lannister, not me. I am not here to murder. And all I want to destroy is the wheel which has rolled over the rich and poor alike. To nobody’s benefit but the Cersei Lannsiters of the world,” She continues and pauses. 

Jon glances at Sansa. Her expression is neutral but her eyes tell Jon that she can hardly believe the hypocrisy of Daenerys, who has just burnt their battlefield to ashes, standing here saying she is not here to harm anyone. It is baffling, the way she is incapable of seeing herself clearly. And yet.

“I offer you a choice. Bend the knee and join me, and we will leave the world a better place than the one we found it in, or refuse me. And die.”

The words ring out over the decimated grounds.

Jon clenches his fists and Sansa places a hand on his back. Though he can see that her jaw is set in a hard line. What kind of choice is this? Submission through fear of death?

Jon looks around. Davos looks grave. Grey Worm stares straight ahead, unmoved. Jorah looks approving even in the face of this madness. But Tyrion looks, well, frightened. Frightened and honestly alarmed. It’s as if he is seeing his Queen in an even worse light than he did while walking through the ash covered field. 

Jon looks out to the remaining Lannister forces, there are not many. And he realizes that nearly all of them are kneeling. He turns back to Daenerys and she is basking. Basking as if she has done some great thing, but Jon sees only fear on all these mens faces. Not devotion, not thankfulness for their ‘liberation’ no. It is fear that drives this now, and Jon cannot blame them.

It is then that they all realize one man in particular is not kneeling. Jon does not recognize him but he doesn’t look like one to be cowed into submission. 

Daenerys sets her mouth in a hard line and addresses him.

“Step forward my lord,” And the man makes his way to the front of the crowd, “You will not kneel?”

The man speaks with the resignation of one who knows the hardships of war, “I already have a Queen.” 

It is Tyrion who steps forward then, seemingly on his Queen’s side suddenly,“My sister? She wasn’t your Queen until recently though, was she? When she murdered your rightful Queen, Margaery, and destroyed House Tyrell for all time.”

Sansa’s hand, still on Jon’s back, fists into the fabric there harshly at the mention of Margaery Tyrell. 

The man seems to resolve himself further though, “There are no easy choices in war. Say what you want about your sister but she was born here in Westeros and has lived here all her life. You on the other hand? You murdered your own father and chose to support a foreign invader, one with no ties to this land and an army of savages at her back.”

This is a hard man, Jon knows the type and he can’t help but feel as if he knows him, although he has never before seen him in his life. It’s why he is not surprised by the man’s outlook. This man doesn’t fear death, that much is clear. Jon respects that about him. (Though, knowing death himself he thinks maybe this man should pause more and consider what it is he is sacrificing here today).

“You will not trade your honour for your life, I respect that,” Daenerys echoes Jon’s thoughts and he doesn’t like that he is at all aligned with her on this. 

Sansa intercedes suddenly, withdrawing her hand and sending a shiver of fear up Jon’s spine. 

“Your Grace. If I may,” Sansa says, “This man seems honourable and well respected. He could be a welcome addition to the Night’s Watch. Or if you rather, perhaps a political hostage going forward? One can never underestimate the power of having a hostage at hand.”

Jon knows Sansa speaks from experience with that argument. 

Daenerys smiles, her teeth glinting in the sun that peaks through the cloud cover and ash, “I already have the only hostage I could ever need in Jaime Lannister.”

The man who still refuses to kneel adds, “You cannot send me to the Wall. You are not my Queen.”

Sansa seems to shrink as her attempt fails and then there is a commotion as a younger man comes forward from the crowd.

“You will have to kill me too,” He says.

The older man reacts violently as a few Dothraki restrain him, “Step back and shut your mouth.”

“Who are you?” Daenerys asks their new addition. 

“A stupid boy” says the older man at the same time as the other one speaks.

“I’m Dickon Tarly, son of Randall Tarly.”

All the blood drains from Jon’s face. Sam. This is Sam’s father and brother. He knows there is no love lost between father and son, but Sam would never wish this on him, not in a thousand years. And his brother. Sam loves his brother. It hits him that it is Sam’s resolve in the face of danger that he recognized moments ago on Randall’s face and it splinters Jon’s heart a bit further. 

Jon looks at Sansa, desperately, almost begging her with her eyes to come up with something. To save them from this path that they seem unable to get out of while they sit in the shadow of Daenerys’ dragons. (Because all of a sudden they are hers again, not Jon’s Rhaegal. All Daenerys’).

Sansa’s eyes are wide, in fear and slight panic, she recognized the name immediately as well. She seems frozen. 

Tyrion is speaking with haste then, “You are the future of your House. This war has already wiped out the Tyrells. Don’t let that mistake happen again. Bend the knee.”

Sam’s brother is unmoved by Tyrion’s snapping tone. 

“I will not,” Dickon says stubbornly. 

Tyrion turns to his Queen and speaks even more feverishly, “Your Grace, nothing scrubs brave notions from a head like a few weeks in a dark cell.” 

“I meant what I said, I’m not here to put men in chains. If I offer chains then many will quickly take it. I gave them a choice.”

Jon cowers at Daenerys’ words because they leave no uncertainty. She appears as if she isn’t really with them, as if she is somewhere else entirely. Lost in the power that her dragons have given her. Drunk on the exhilaration of burning those alive. 

“Your Grace, If you start beheading entire families–” Tyrion’s words die. 

“I’m not beheading anyone.” 

The finality with which Daenerys speaks sends Jon’s shoulders slumping. There will be nothing any of them can do. And yet. And yet he feels Sansa moving away from him and out to stand in front of Daenerys. Jon can only watch, unable to reach her. Though his hand lifts to follow her, as if attached to a string she carries. (He thinks that she has always been the braver of them, she hadn’t hesitated in their need to reclaim Winterfell and here she is standing in front of Daenerys and her dragons for two men she doesn’t even know).

“Your Grace,” Sansa’s voice is high and clear and Jon can see that Randall and Dickon watch her in interest even as their lives hang in the balance, “I beg you remember our prior conversations.”

Daenerys turns to face Sansa head on, and Jon is struck by the thought that Daenerys would like to burn Sansa in that moment as she takes away from Daenerys’ show of prestige and power. This is supposed to be about her utilizing her Targaryen might for the first time and the Lady of Winterfell is distracting from the full effect. It is not something that will go untold when this story reaches the rest of the realm. And Jon can see hatred blazing in Daenerys’ eyes, pure and white hot. Before she conceals it and you can only see her distaste in her flaring nostrils. 

“Which conversation is it you refer to Lady Stark?” Daenerys asks, mustering all the control she can to exude a face of calmness. Though Jon doubts she fools many as her dragons still loom over them all.

Sansa spares a glance at the Tarlys and then clasps her hands in front of herself. She looks regal in every sense of the word. Composed and immovable.

“I thought all of us here were in firm agreement that we would no longer suffer for the sins of our fathers?” Sansa says and inclines her head to Dickon, “Do not punish Dickon Tarly for his father’s insubordination here today when any of us would do the same thing for our loved ones. Allow him to aid us in our fight against the dead.”

And as a final thought, Sansa says with a bow of her head, “Your Grace.”

Jon lets out a breath as he watches Daenerys’ face contort to rage and then resignation. She knows she is trapped. Everyone has heard Sansa clearly. Nobody can question her ironclad argument. Daenerys risks looking like a tyrant to those who will spread this story across the realm if she doesn’t offer mercy now. 

Daenerys steps forward, “Very well. Take Dickon Tarly away. Only one must burn today.”

Her words are cold and Jon watches as a few Dothraki forcibly remove Dickon from the line of the dragons. Sansa comes to rejoin Jon.

“I did what I could. I wouldn’t have been able to save them both. I’m sorry Jon. I know what Sam means to you,” Sansa says under her breath.

Jon reaches for her hand and squeezes it once.

“It is enough Sansa, always,” He says and lets go.

In front of them Dickon is protesting, still trying to reach his father but the Dothraki overpower him easily. 

“Dickon, stand down,” Randall says and spares his son one glance.

Daenerys steps forward, “Lord Randall Tarly. I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, first of my name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die. Do you have any final words?”

“Not for you.”

Randall Tarly’s eyes land on Sansa. He speaks across the vast gap between them.

“Lady Stark is it? Daughter of Ned and Catelyn?” Randall asks.

Sansa nods her head at him once. 

Randall nods once in return.

“Thank you for my son’s life. May Winter spare you and your kin in the wars to come,” Randall gives her a bleak smile and Jon feels his eyes prick with tears. 

He looks at Sansa and sees tears are falling on her cheeks freely.

“We shall remember you. Lord Tarly,” Sansa says. 

A final send off.

Daenerys doesn’t acknowledge any of them for even a moment. 

Jon sees Randall look to his son one last time and he hears Dickon’s screams as Daenerys sentences his father to death.

“Dracarys.”

Then there is only fire. 

* * *

They wait.

Sansa doesn’t know where Daenerys is and she thinks that maybe that is for the best because she needs time to collect her thoughts and figure out what the hell they are going to do now. Daenerys had been in Westeros for less than three months and she has unleashed Dragon Fire on her enemies. Sansa realizes the precarious position they are in by aligning themselves with such a woman. At the same time they would be the ones burned if they do not take these actions. Not to mention the lives of the entire continent hinge on this alliance, hinge on their ability to get her to come North and fulfill her promises.

The thought doesn’t make up for the lives lost today, Sansa doubts it ever will. She knows that Randall Tarly’s eyes are going to haunt her until the day she dies. She had done what she could, she knows this. But there is a part of her that yells and screams, insisting that she should have burned with them rather than let Daenerys’ justice reign supreme. 

Sansa looks up from her seat and watches Jon pace. They are waiting in a tent for Daenerys to grace them with her presence. Davos sits across from Sansa and Brienne stands resolutely near the entrance to the tent. Brienne had found them afterwards. Sansa had lost track of her in the aftermath of Jaime nearly being killed on the battlefield. And when Brienne had found them there had been something haunted in her eyes, she had spoken little and only nodded her head when Sansa told her Jaime is now Daenerys’ prisoner. 

The four of them make a sad portrait, Sansa thinks. A quartet unable to create any sort of solution. A King and his sister-cousin, along with their advisors, who all set out dreaming of saving themselves and their people. Only to be here, in a tent, waiting on the word of another Queen. One who burns people alive. How did they get to this point, Sansa asks herself, not for the first time. 

They haven’t spoken much. The day’s events too hard on them. They all have too much reflecting to do on what is to come and on what is to transpire from here. Because they are at a crossroads and Sansa knows they all feel it. There is no returning from their complicity today, but there is no life in the future to look forward to if they don’t.

“Jon,” Sansa says finally, begs him to stop his pacing, “This isn’t your fault.”

She knows it’s what he thinks, can see how it weighs on him.

Jon stops his endless circling but fixes her with a stare that feels too intimate for their present company. She is overly aware of Brienne and Davos watching their actions transpire. 

“My best friend’s father, Sansa,” Jon says and it sounds like a heavy release, “That life is on my hands.”

Sansa stands and crosses to Jon, places a hand on his shoulder.

“But not his brother,” Sansa reminds him gently.

Jon shakes his head and looks to the ground, “That victory is yours alone.”

Sansa sighs and lets her hand drop. Just as she does Daenerys enters their tent. Tyrion, Varys, and Jorah follow closely behind her and it suddenly feels very crowded. Sansa guesses that Grey Worm and Missandei must be off, given a reprieve from this particular duty. Let them have some respite, Sansa hopes, from fighting battles that are not theirs. 

Daenerys doesn’t pause and continues to stride to the centre of the room, drawing back the chair at the head of the table and letting her advisors file in around her. Davos, already seated, looks pointedly at her and Jon. She can hear his unvoiced words. _No matter what you think of her, we need to make nice now._

Sansa takes her seat first and Jon and Brienne move to follow. Once they are all seated Daenerys speaks.

“You wished to speak with me,” Daenerys says pleasantly but Sansa can’t help to second guess what lurks beneath the words.

“We need to discuss the burning of Randall Tarly, and unleashing Drogon on the battlefield,” Jon says bluntly, not beating around the bush.

Daenerys is nonplussed, “I don’t see why. They took aim at my dragons first, I struck back in the same way.”

Sansa can’t argue this point because she can’t make Daenerys see how the situations aren’t equivalents. The potential death of one dragon versus that of hundreds of men doesn’t seem at all fair. 

Jon is barely restrained, “It wasn’t the plan.”

Daenerys raises a brow, “I told you in the air what I was going to do.”

Jon is about to argue but Davos intercedes. 

“What our King means Your Grace, is that when we all go together to fight the Night King we must present a united front. We can’t afford surprises going forward.”

Daenerys considers them for a long while.

“I will do what is necessary to protect my children. The ones that remain to me,” Daenerys says icily. 

Something in her overly calm manner forces Sansa to speak up, she can barely hold it in any longer.

“Do you feel nothing? Men died today and you seem completely unaffected,” Sansa asks and she can feel everyone in the room tense. 

Daenerys turns her eyes to Sansa and she can tell the woman still burns with what she accomplished today. Her gaze doesn’t falter. 

“My enemies died today, in exchange for a better future for all of us. _Our_ enemies. As long as we remain allies that is,” Daenerys spits out at her. 

Sansa merely clasps her hands on the table, “Is that a threat?”

Tyrion cuts in before Daenerys can rebuttal, “Lady Stark. Your Grace. We are all on the same side here, surely we can put aside petty squabbles–”

“We will not abide the burning of more innocents Lord Tyrion,” Jon says then with a finality that makes Sansa think of his declarations in Winterfell’s Great Hall, when he told them all he would go to Dragonstone, just before Bran came and changed all their plans. 

“Innocents?” Daenerys scoffs, “These are Lannister men, those who are loyal to Cersei. Sansa, you above everyone cannot defend them.”

And Daenerys is right, she won’t defend Cersei. 

“I won’t defend _our_ enemies, Your Grace,” Sansa says and concedes, “But what Davos says remains true. Changing tactics mid battle puts us all at risk. None more so today then Jon who was left exposed on his dragon while you went rogue.”

Daenerys’ eyes light up suddenly. 

“I saved Jon,” Daenerys says with surprising softness but a hint of grit, “He would not be here today at all if not for me.”

Sansa breathes out slowly and she feels everyone’s eyes on her, especially Jon’s. Who she knows is probably jumping out of his seat to speak up but knows better to let her handle this. 

“And we will be forever indebted to you for that. It is not something I will be quick to forget but the fact remains that this is not the plan we agreed to,” Sansa says, refusing to back down. 

“What are you suggesting Lady Stark?” It is Varys who poses the question and he can’t keep the genuine interest out of his voice. 

And Sansa hesitates. She looks around at everyone, because the idea that has struck her has unimaginable risks. She doesn’t know if it would work at all, it could be a huge bluff. An unreasonable gamble. But she decides to commit to it, recklessly thinking that Arya would tell her to do it if she were here. 

“I propose that if we cannot have certain assurances that the same thing won’t happen when we fight the Night King, that the North will amicably leave this alliance and retreat North to defend ourselves against the oncoming threat,” Sansa says simply.

Jon, Davos, and Brienne are all gaping at her. The other side isn’t faring much better. 

“You have said yourself over and over you cannot win this fight without my dragons…” Daenerys trails off, more confused than affronted. 

Sansa’s face twists into an expression she thinks she has seen Cersei Lannister wear before, the one you wear when you are about to pull the rug out on your opponents. She spares one last look at Jon, he hasn’t caught up to where she is going. 

“Are they still your dragons? Both of them?” Sansa says and lets the implication hang in the air. 

She hears air being sucked in all around her. Because, Daenerys might not know the truth of Jon’s birth, but she can’t deny the bond they have all seen form between Jon and Rhaegal. Would it be strong enough to sever him from Daenerys? Sansa doesn’t know. But if Daenerys even fears it is… well.

She watches, with barely suppressed glee, as Daenerys connects the dots Sansa herself has been putting together the last few hours. Jorah has a tight grip on his sword and Tyrion looks between herself and Daenerys with a wary expression of uncertainty. She sees Jon staring at her half as if she is out of her mind and half as if he wishes to pull her into his arms right there in front of everyone. 

“You dare to threaten to take Rhaegal from me?” Daenerys says and rises from her chair, storm clouds gathering in her eyes, “You forget you speak to the _Mother_ of Dragons, Sansa.”

Varys, who actually looks like there is a hint of amusement in his eyes, says, “Oh I think she knows very well, Your Grace. She brought about the deaths of Ramsay Bolton and Petyr Baelish. I would daresay Sansa Stark never commits to something she doesn’t mean to follow through on.”

The compliment hedges onto outright admiration and Sansa fights to keep her expression neutral. 

“Would you risk it, Your Grace?” Sansa asks, her voice light, as if she inquires about the weather but her eyes shimmering with something more sinister.

Daenerys kicks her chair back and Sansa can see her hands have a slight tremor even from afar. Nobody moves. And when Daenerys doesn’t reply after several terse seconds, Sansa continues. 

“The North can be a valuable ally going forward. Bringing you allies who do not need to be scared into submission. Or we can be a volatile enemy. The choice is yours,” Sansa says, feeling as if she has finally gained the upper hand. 

Daenerys’ expression, despite everything, hesitates for a few seconds. And Sansa knows she has her. She has finally shown Daenerys the Northern grit she has, the unwavering backbone she learned to possess. And Daenerys might hate her right now but she respects her all the same. (Though Sansa remembers with a chill that she respected Randall Tarly as well).

Daenerys sits down and the battle is won, Sansa lets out an inaudible sigh. 

“You have my word that I will not waver from our plans going forward,” Daenerys says with reverberating tension, “But if you ever threaten me or my dragons again, Lady Stark. We will not hesitate to take up arms against the North.”

Sansa nods. And she suddenly feels a pressure on her thigh. Jon. He has gripped her leg and gives it a tight squeeze of reassurance. It is enough to startle her but she recovers quickly, no outward sign of her disturbance. 

“Now that this is settled I think we cannot ignore that we should expect retaliation from Cersei,” Tyrion says, clearly steering the subject around. 

Sansa glances at Jon and is unsurprised to find the look of exhaustion on his face.

“We can discuss Cersei later. We hold Jaime Lannister, that is enough of a deterrent. The Night King first, that is our agreement,” He says and Sansa nods at his words. 

Tyrion sighs.

“I don’t know what my sister will do, even when we hold Jaime. It may even cause more reckless behaviour. I just think that discussing options, while we remain this close to King’s Landing would be in our best interest,” Tyrion says.

Sansa looks to Davos because she honestly wants his council on this, but it is Brienne who speaks up.

“Do you just plan to hold Ser Jaime hostage indefinitely then?” Brienne says, a bit outraged at the prospect.

Daenerys looks surprised, “Is that a problem? He is the man who killed my father and he only lives because of the advantage he can give us over his sister.”

Daenerys speaks as if these are all easily indisputable facts that have no further complexities. Brienne gives her a hard stare but does not press the matter further. 

“If I may, Your Grace” Davos begins, “I have a suggestion that may appease everyone.”

All the heads turn to Davos. But before he can continue there is a guest at the door. One of Daenerys’ Unsullied. 

“Your Grace, the prisoners as you requested,” He says and a few more Unsullied bring in Bronn and Jaime, both in chains.

Jaime’s eyes take in the scene before him and as his eyes land on Tyrion, then her and Jon, and lastly on Brienne, his whole face lights up as if this is all a great jape. 

With cold laughter, he says, “Who would have thought we would see the day the honourable Starks become allies to the Targaryen throne? Not me.”

“Silence Kingslayer. Or we will gag you,” Daenerys says immediately. 

Jaime snaps his mouth shut with an elbow in the ribs from Bronn but Sansa can see his eyes absorbing them all, carefully scrutinizing their every move. She glances at Brienne who’s eyes haven’t wavered once since Jaime was brought in. 

“You may leave them here chained. Thank you,” Daenerys says and the Unsullied guards exit, “We were just discussing your fate before you joined us, and I believe Lord Davos was going to tell us something that would give us all a solution that pleases us most thoroughly.”

Davos looks uncertain suddenly but Sansa sees Jon give him a nod, implicitly trusting in what he was going to say, even though Sansa knows he is as clueless as to what it is as she is. Davos looks to their new additions one last time and then continues.

“What I was going to propose is that we call for a meeting with Cersei Lannister. We ask for a ceasefire, for her to devote her soldiers to the fight in the North and to put aside the war for the crown in the process. I know Your Grace fears what she will accomplish while we are otherwise occupied,” Davos says.

They all take a few seconds to consider his words and Sansa’s mind is spinning, at the implications and how it actually is a wise enough plan. Getting all the powerful forces to talk about the future of Westeros? It has not been done, but it would be more civil than continuing to fight in the face of imminent death, would it not?

Tyrion barks out a laugh, “My sister will never agree to such a deal.”

But Sansa is staring at Jaime, his expression hasn’t changed and yet something in his eyes has hardened and Sansa is willing to bet that Jaime knows Cersei a bit better than Tyrion. (And she has grown used to trusting her own intuition about the woman as well). 

“It is a fair proposal Lord Davos, but I have to agree with my Hand. Cersei Lannister doesn’t understand peace,” Daenerys says.

Sansa can’t help but notice how nice Daenerys is playing, all civilized talks and pleasantries, now that her enemies are here to listen in. It seems she has learned something from the time that she exploded on Tyrion in front of all of them. 

Davos looks put out at being turned down so easily and everyone seems to be waiting for someone to propose a new idea. 

“She will agree,” Sansa says.

And everyone looks at her slowly. 

“Not even you can know that Lady Stark,” Varys says tiredly. 

But it is in Jon’s face that she finds understanding because this time he sees where she is going. His eyes light up at the same time as hers. 

“She can,” Jon says, excitement bubbling up. 

“Speak plainly,” Daenerys says with a creased brow, “No riddles.”

Sansa straightens her shoulders and turns to Bronn and Jaime. 

“She will agree because we are going to send Ser Bronn to King’s Landing to tell her that if she doesn’t agree to the peace talks, we will cut off Ser Jaime’s head,” Sansa says.

Her words are wicked, but Sansa feels divine. It has been a good end to a terrible day. Jaime’s eyes round at her words and she knows, again, that she has Cersei, and she doesn’t even realize what is coming for her. 

Tyrion even seems surprised by her cunning but he is nodding to himself. Varys looks impassive but reflective as he watches her. Jorah and Daenerys exchange a look of shock that they missed something so obvious themselves, it had been Daenerys herself who said that Jaime would be the only hostage she would ever need. Jon beams at her and Davos looks proud. Only Brienne appears upset and she feels for her, she does. But Cersei and the danger she poses must outweigh the feelings Brienne has for Ser Jaime. Sansa knows she will come to see that. 

“Oh seven hells,” Bronn says with a grimace, “I don’t know how but this is going to end piss poorly for me.”

Daenerys looks at Sansa appraisingly, so different from there tense argument minutes ago, “I approve. Guards! Come and ready a troop to escort Ser Bronn back to King’s Landing. He has a message for his Queen.”

At Daenerys’ words the Unsullied re-enter the tent and take Bronn out, much to his protest. 

It is only then that Sansa realizes that Ser Jaime still looks at her, intently and as if he is in a dream. It is slightly unnerving and Sansa can see Jon tensing as he realizes it as well. 

“You are Catelyn Stark,” Jaime says, a bit awed, “I have been here before. Fucking hell, Catelyn and even Brienne is here.”

Sansa blushes at the comparison, feeling hot all over. She knows that it must appear similar to him. Jaime shakes his head and lets out a laugh that makes him sound a bit mad. And then his eyes land on Jon. They widen and he seems to be putting something together because he takes in Jon’s defensive posture, the set of his shoulders and then some sort of understanding seems to pass over his features. 

“Oh, that’s rich. Cersei will love this. She should have known,” Jaime says and his eyes dance. 

Confusion washes over the room but an icy chill starts to spread over her, washing away the heat from moments prior. Because nobody else seems clued in, not perceptive Davos, maybe not even Tyrion. But Sansa looks to Jon and she thinks they both understand Jaime’s implication as he stands their grinning, eyes flitting between the two of them.

* * *

“Sansa Stark is going to become a problem,” Tyrion says and takes a swig of his wine. 

Daenerys looks at him over her own wine, “Is she not already?”

Tyrion raises his glass towards her and they both drink deeply to that sentiment. Jorah, Missandei, and Grey Worm all take polite drinks in agreement but Daenerys’ eyes land on Varys who remains as immovable as ever. 

“You disagree, Lord Varys?” Daenerys muses, she’s had a few drinks and while the problem of Sansa Stark distresses her she is slightly mollified by the alcohol numbing her around the edges. It is definitely what she needed after the day’s events. 

Varys scrutinizes the rest of them.

“I think that Sansa Stark may be very important going forward and that we would do well not to make an enemy of her,” He says carefully. 

Daenerys sets down her glass gently and her advisors all watch her next move closely. 

“I have no desire to make Sansa Stark my enemy. I actually enjoy the girl for what she’s worth. But if she insists on making me _her enemy_ then we will have a problem,” Daenerys folds her hands, “I cannot have my subjects undermining me.”

Tyrion coughs, “The North are not yet your subjects, Your Grace.”

Daenerys takes in a long breath. Why does Tyrion continue to bring this up?

“They will be. Once I save us all from the Night King they will have no choice but to do what is honourable and pledge to the Iron Throne,” Daenerys says. 

To her surprise, it is Jorah who counsels her then. 

“Khaleesi. I mean no offense, but I know the North. Their memories are long and just as stubborn. As long as these Starks live we are unlikely to have the North bend the knee at any time in the future,” Jorah says, concern in his eyes. 

Daenerys pinches up her face. The alcohol’s numbing effect is quickly wearing off her and she grows weary of her advisor’s attempts to staunch her elation at today’s victories.

“It matters not,” Daenerys decides, “I still have my dragons. Despite Sansa Stark’s words today, they won’t steal Rhaegal from me.”

Nobody calls her on this but she thinks she can see the desire flicker in both Tyrion and Varys’ eyes. Because it is a bluff. Sure, the thought had crossed her mind that Sansa was bluffing as well. But the truth of the matter is that either woman may not know the truth about what could happen. Daenerys is at the disadvantage because she is unwilling to risk losing another one of her children, not so soon. 

“Regardless,” Tyrion says after a fashion, “The issue of the Starks remains. Even if we intend to remain committed to this alliance we can’t expect it to outlast the Long Night. We must plan for certain eventualities.”

The words strike a chord because they remind Daenerys of Tyrion’s other incessant worries about ‘eventualities’ like Daenerys’ successor, and her lack of an heir. She knows that after today Tyrion’s blood must be boiling at the risk she was put in during the battle. 

“Do we not think that the Starks will want to help us defeat Cersei though? She also stands in the way of their independence?” Missandei asks softly, confusion on her face.

Daenerys gives her friend a sad smile. She loves Missandei deeply but she is innocent in ways that Daenerys is not. 

Tyrion responds easily, “My sister won’t move against the North for some time, not with us occupying her as the bigger threat. So if the Starks are smart, which they are, much too for their own good in my opinion, they will let us war with one another and then move against the victor or come to an agreement on the North’s independence. They don’t want another war.”

Missandei nods as understanding sinks in. 

“Jon Snow is malleable though, I think. Sansa Stark appears to be the issue there,” Jorah says, “If she were out of the picture…”

Daenerys tends to agree. She thinks more and more lately that if Jon had come to Dragonstone without his sister that she would have made much more progress on gaining their submission. And yet. She does like Sansa, for her defiance and maybe somewhat out of spite. She is right, they are similar, they have faced many of the same things. Daenerys admires that. What she doesn’t admire is how Sansa thinks this elevates her to the same status as Daenerys herself. Too Queenly for a Lady of the North. Yes, Daenerys decides, Sansa Stark sees herself the Queen to Jon’s King in many ways. Odd. But she supposes it is more political than anything.

Daenerys catches Varys’ look of dismay once again. 

“Yes? Lord Varys?” Daenerys asks, not hiding how tired her voice sounds. 

Varys takes a long time to respond and when he does Daenerys doesn’t like his words. 

“I think that Lord Snow is less aloof than he can sometimes appear. He would die for… for his family. That much is clear. An attack on one of them is an attack on both,” Varys says. 

It strikes Daenerys that he says Jon would die for his family, of whom they know three members live, and yet he said ‘both’ when speaking of an attack. Jon and Sansa are the unit there, clearly. But still. She doesn’t like the implication. 

“Jon Snow is a warrior, Your Grace,” It is Grey Worm who says this, “He is as much a danger as any man who learns to wield a sword. I suggest we consider him carefully.”

Daenerys is surprised by this assessment but she guesses that Grey Worm must see more than she had thought he had in his brief encounters with Jon. 

All of this irks her. Jon is irking her incessentaly. When she had flown to ask him to join her in the assault today she had expected immediate agreement but he had stared at her in disgust. Somehow, since their journey beyond the wall, Daenerys had been dreaming. Dreaming of a future with Jon, pushing his rejection aside. Thinking that something had changed between them when he had nearly died. But that look had stripped all of it away in a flash. She doesn’t want to talk about this any longer. 

“Tyrion, tell us what to expect from Cersei at this meeting,” Daenerys changes the subject quickly.

Tyrion looks at her in surprise and then launches into several anecdotal stories about how his sister plays politics. Everyone seems intent on his words, Missandei and Grey Worm, Jorah, even Varys who has known the woman for years. But Daenerys hardly hears any of what is said. 

She is too intent on her thoughts of Jon and Sansa, and something unravelling that is slowly shaking loose inside her. 

* * *

Jon steps up beside her and he knows that she realizes that he is there, and yet she doesn’t acknowledge his presence. She continues to stare into the flames of the fire before her. Everyone else has mostly turned in for the night. Brienne and Davos are long gone and only a few stragglers still meander around camp. They are alone as they can be in the middle of an army encampment. 

“Can we go for a walk?” Jon speaks after several minutes pass in silence. 

It is the most mundane thing he could say, but Sansa nods and they take off in mutual agreement towards the nearby trees. The night is dark but the moon bathes them in a pearly glow and illuminates the forest floor around them. Everything is quiet, the animals and bugs are sleeping. They only hear their own footsteps for several more minutes. Eventually Jon breaks it. 

“You were brilliant today Sansa. In every way,” Jon says.

Neither of them stop walking but he sees her adjust her posture slightly from the corner of his eye.

“Thank you Jon. It was…” Sansa hesitates, “A difficult day all around.”

Her voice is formal and almost distant and Jon is confused for a few breaths before she speaks again. 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save Randall. And I’m sorry you had to ride Rhaegal. I know how difficult that is for you…” Sansa says and gives him a look of deepest sorrow. 

Jon sighs as they go deeper into the forest. 

“Do you think it makes me too Targaryen to say that the actual ride is enjoyable?” Jon aims for levity but sounds a bit pouty. 

Sansa stops abruptly and turns to him, concern evident all over her face. 

“Jon.”

He can only look at her, the moon reflecting in her eyes. 

“Of course it doesn’t. It looks terrifying but it is likely exhilarating. Anyone would find it incredible,” Sansa assures him.

After Jon gives her a nod they both start to walk again, this time a bit slower and with less space between them. Occasionally they brush arms. The act sends Jon’s heart speeding ahead. 

“Maybe I could take you, sometime,” Jon says and he hears her intake of breath at his words.

Jon wonders if it supposes too much. He is finding that he doesn’t really care. 

Sansa is about to respond, he thinks, when they come upon a fair sized pond surrounded by huge old trees that hang around it. It is like something out of an ancient painting. It stops them both. 

Suddenly, Jon remembers what he had wanted to discuss from the start. 

“You shouldn’t be there,” Jon says and Sansa’s head whips to meet his eyes, “At the meeting with Cersei.”

Sansa’s eyebrows shoot up, “What?”

“You’ve said it yourself. Cersei wants nothing more than to see you dead. To put you in that position… it is unnecessary,” Jon tries to justify his need to protect her, a need that he has had since she came back to him, quite honestly. 

Sansa’s expression softens, “As little as I care for Cersei Lannister, I will not be absent from a meeting that is happening because of my own actions. I will not give her the satisfaction of seeing me hide.”

And Sansa’s expression shifts into something unruly, something untamed. And gods, Jon wants to feel her in his hands, he wants to taste her. But he pulls back. Simply stares at her, and realizes that she has never needed his protection. Though he will always need hers. 

Sansa turns back to the pond. And Jon is left hanging over his own unresolved feelings. 

“Daenerys will be a problem. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But eventually we won’t be able to placate her,” Sansa says and stares into the deep dark depths of the water. 

“Are we doing so well with that now?” Jon says with a hollow chuckle. 

Sansa shrugs without saying anything and Jon changes tactics. 

“What are we going to do about it?” Jon asks, serious now. Becoming the King he has to be. 

Sansa stares at the water for quite some time and Jon thinks she isn’t going to answer him but then she turns back to him. Ice blue eyes bright in the night. 

“I’m thinking about it, only just formulating a plan. But when I have something, you’ll be the first to know,” Sansa says. 

And Jon nods. He won’t fight her on this tonight, a time will come for her to tell him everything. Once upon a time her vague words would bother him, when his feelings of inadequacy had given him pause when it came to Littlefinger and his closeness to Sansa. He finds that he trusts her too much now to second guess her.

“You’re right. You need to be there with Cersei. I shouldn’t have tried to say otherwise,” Jon admits.

And then something shifts in Sansa’s eyes and her voice comes out in the quietest breath. 

“Then why did you?” She asks and Jon swears she looks at him through her lashes. 

He is suddenly aware of every nerve in his body. And also of the fact that he has never properly admired her eyelashes, the stunning lengths that frame her overly familiar eyes. 

“Sansa.”

Jon’s voice is hoarse, he takes half a step towards her. 

“Say it Jon,” Her voice is soft but somehow commanding and Jon’s throat goes dry. 

“You know why,” Jon says in a whisper, they’re too close, much too close, “I have to protect you. I will always protect you.”

Jon’s words seem to do something to Sansa because she closes her eyes and lets them wash over her. Serenity lighting up her face that has been too sorrowful for too long. She opens them and pierces him with a look of pure fire. Burning outwards and licking at him, warming him all over. He takes another step forward and they’re basically chest to chest. Breathing in each other’s air and Jon leans in. 

For the briefest moment Jon sees Sansa lean towards him and then her hand is on his chest, applying light pressure and putting space between them. 

“Jon we can’t,” Sansa’s voice breaks on the last word and he has to close his eyes at the rejection as it washes over him in waves, but Sansa keeps speaking and Jon opens his eyes to hear her words. 

“Not now. Not when we are about to fight another battle wholly unlike one you have faced before. I–I can’t,” Sansa steps away and Jon sees tears glisten in her eyes. 

Jon clenches his fists at his sides. Not in anger at her but in anger at the world, at all that stands between them. At all who have hurt her in the past, who continue to hurt her today. He closes his eyes again and hears her footsteps receding. 

“But Jon,” Sansa’s voice is further away and his ears prick, “I will always protect you too. Now and always. Let me do this first. And then I promise.”

Jon doesn’t open his eyes for a long time and he remains rooted to his spot in the forest, ignoring the cold even as shivers eventually find him. Because he thinks, he thinks that Sansa Stark has just promised him all he has thought about for many moons.

* * *

Cersei stands in her chambers and awaits the news from Qyburn. The Mountain and Bronn flank her, both of them silent and waiting.

When Bronn had arrived, with a group of Unsullied guards, to tell her that Daenerys Targaryen had taken Jaime hostage and wanted to use him as leverage to arrange a meeting for peace, she had wanted to laugh. Hysterically and without control. All these years later and he was lost to her again. She had almost refused. She grows so tired of fighting. So tired of clinging to life by the skin of her teeth just to have hardship after hardship thrown in her face. Her mother and father gone. Her children all gone, and not even Jaime with her now. It doesn’t seem worth it.

But when she heard that it was Sansa Stark who actually proposed the terms of this arrangement. When she heard it was Sansa Stark who truly held her brother’s life in her hands. Cersei knew she had no choice but to agree. Because Sansa Stark would not hesitate to take the last dear thing in the world to Cersei. No, she suspected Sansa Stark would be all too willing to inflict some pain back on her after all this time.

Qyburn enters the room and the first question comes flying from her mouth, unbidden. 

“Is she with them?” Cersei asks, breathless.

Strange, she thinks. That she asks first after Sansa and not her brother. But she had almost feared that Sansa would forego the meeting altogether. She should have known that the girl has more backbone than that. (After all, Cersei had been enough of a pseudo-mother in her formative years to have rubbed off on her at least a bit. Right? But that tastes bitter too, her three children dead but this wretched girl still alive and causing her problems).

“Yes, Your Grace. She travels with Jon Snow. But Daenerys Targaryen has not been seen,” Qyburn says.

“The rest of them though?” Cersei asks, not willing to let the Dragon Queen take up any more of her time today

“Yes, all accounted for.” Qyburn answers.

“Including my brothers?” Cersei asks finally.

Qyburn nods at her and she turns to Ser Gregor. She takes one breath and steps into the image of a Queen she will have to be for the next several hours. Planning for every possibility and not letting them see her flinch.

“If anything goes wrong, kill the silver haired bitch first, then Tyrion, then the bastard who calls himself King. Kill them all. But not Sansa Stark. She is mine,” Cersei says with gritted teeth and a clenched jaw.

Gregor gives a nod of understanding. She sees Bronn gulp out of the corner of her eye and Qyburn’s eyes gleam with anticipation.

Cersei strides from the room without a word and the three of them follow her giving her a wide berth. It is time, Cersei thinks. Time to put an end to old enemies and to learn how to fight the new. It is time to get Jaime back.

* * *

Sansa and the rest of their group walk along the path towards the Dragonpit. All of them except Daenerys that is. Sansa keeps even with Jon, Brienne, and Davos. Podrick is at Brienne’s side as well. He had come South with the other soldiers and they had reunited with him in their journey to King’s Landing. Sansa admitted that it was good to see a familiar face and she had asked him when she had a chance to pull him aside if he had seen Arya.

“She does quite well my Lady. I think she anticipates your return North though,” Podrick had answered and Sansa had thanked him. 

She hadn’t berated him for anymore answers, even though she had about a hundred questions. Knowing that Arya is safe and well would have to be enough for the time being. 

Ahead of them walk Daenerys’ people. Missandei, Grey Worm, Jorah, Tyrion, and Varys. It is almost odd to see them without their Queen, Sansa thinks. As if they simply cease to exist when she is not around. And yet here they are, perfectly functioning with no Dragon Queen in sight. Sansa tries not to think about why Daenerys is absent though. It was a battle they had not won and one she still felt sore about.

Behind them is Ser Jaime, shackled, at least until Cersei shows up to the meeting, and guarded by several Unsullied. Sansa hears his chains dragging and tries to ignore the grating sound. 

Podrick strides ahead and starts to converse with Tyrion. That had been another reunion, Sansa muses. She wonders how his divided loyalties are faring. Not that she has any fears of Podrick. He is a good man, and while he served Tyrion for a time, she knows he is loyal to Brienne almost to a fault, and by proxy he is loyal to the Starks. 

They all trudge along in silence and Sansa thinks it looks like a funeral march. None of them are eager for the meeting, but she knows it is necessary. Knows that it is vital to all their survivals moving forward.

She glances at Jon but he stares straight ahead. They have not been alone since the night in the forest. Recalling it now, Sansa knows that is for the best. She had spoken true in her words, she needed to focus. This thing between them, it is dangerous. It is alive and it breathes, as if on its own. And if they commit to it there is no going back. A frenzy will start that they do not know how to stop. (But _oh,_ how every step away from him had burned and bruised her that night. To know. To really know that they had been so close. It pains her still).

Sansa overhears a conversation ahead of her.

“Why did they build it?” Missandei asks, clearly referring to the Dragonpit they rapidly approach. 

“Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn’t. Letting them roam free around a city was a problem, when it came to food, to people,” Jorah answers. 

And Sansa fights the urge to scoff when his Queen just burned men alive not days ago. Jorah seems incapable of thinking critically about Daenerys’ doings though. 

Tyrion responds more thoughtfully, “I imagine it was a sad joke in the end. An entire arena for a few sickly creatures. But in the beginning when it was home to Balerion the Dread… It must have been the most dangerous place in the world.” 

Yes, Sansa thinks, and yet Tyrion is trying to revive the dangerous dead dynasty. How poetic. 

“Maybe it still is,” Davos interrupts them and they all turn to him.

His words are a bit on the nose, Sansa thinks, as the most powerful (and most dangerous) people in Westeros are all trying to come together into one place, and yet they all hope to leave said place with their heads intact. 

“Welcome my Lords. I’ve been sent to escort you all to the meeting” It is Bronn, he looks whole and well cared for. He puts on a good show of pretending they hadn’t held him hostage. But he still seems a man only acting the part of a noble. 

Both Tyrion and Podrick smile jovially, Tyrion had obviously seen Bronn before, thought the circumstances were a bit dire, but Sansa knows that Podrick did not. The boy is too soft for these wars, Sansa thinks. He deserves a quiet life and a pretty wife. Not battles with ruthless Kings and Queens. 

Bronn starts to walk them towards the pit and both Tyrion and Podrick walk to join him in stride. Sansa hangs back, she has no wish to hear their conversation.

They walk quietly for a few more minutes when an oddly familiar voice calls to her. It freezes her in place. 

“Hello, Little Dove,” to her great surprise it is Sandor Clegane. 

Her feelings on the man are complex to say the least, and she decides now is not the time to voice them. But how is he here? Sneaking up on her like that. 

Before she knows it both Jon and Brienne are drawing their swords. 

“I thought you were dead,” Brienne says in outrage.

Jon just scowls. 

“Enough,” Sansa says and raises her hand. 

Brienne and Jon both sheath their weapons but she can tell by Jon’s posture that he is still on guard. 

“I nearly _was_ dead,” Clegane says to Brienne, seemingly unfazed by everything unfolding, “Glad to see you’re not though, Little Dove.”

A chill goes up her spine. 

“I’ve heard stories about you. Stories about Littlefinger, about the bastard Ramsay,” There is some sick expression there and Sansa knows she has to end the situation now. 

“That is the past,” Sansa says firmly and she hears Jon’s tense breathing beside her. She refuses to look at him, “We are here for the future, which makes me wonder why _you_ are here?”

Sandor considers her and then he pushes through them to keep walking. 

“News travels fast and my brother will be here,” Is the only answer he gives. 

The rest of them resume their walk and then Brienne calls ahead.

“Arya lives as well,” she says to Sandor.

He doesn’t turn around but Sansa thinks she hears a smile in his answer. 

“Aye. It would take more to kill her than whatever has come for her yet I imagine,” he says over his shoulder. 

She knows Sandor has helped Arya, but she can’t quite reconcile that image with the one of the Sandor Clegane she always knew. So she doesn’t dwell on it, deciding that it doesn’t matter at the moment. 

Jon remains surly and continues to eye him for the rest of their walk. Sansa does not try to reach him. 

Soon enough they are in the pit and they all slowly take their seats around the arena. It feels almost sterile, Sansa thinks. You can feel the history, Tyrion was right. From Balerion the Dread to the tiny reptiles that posed as dragons at the end. And yet here they are now, with dragons flocking the continent as if nothing has changed. 

They wait for several long minutes before they hear a procession at the entrance to the Dragonpit. Sansa’s stomach clenches and she feels as if she is on the edge of her seat in anticipation, though she tries to occupy her seat with the sort of bravado that may say she is seated at a throne instead. 

Finally, they enter. 

At the head of the procession she stands tall, though she is a slight woman. Cloaked all in black and an understated crown, is Cersei Lannister. Sansa reminds herself to breathe. Her hair is short. Cropped almost harshly to her scalp, and Sansa had heard the stories, but seeing it in the flesh is another thing altogether. Self-consciously her hand reaches for her own long locks. She knows, somehow, how important Cersei’s hair would have been to her. To lose it like that, against your will, it must have been horrific. Even with the other horrors she has endured. 

Besides that, Cersei’s face seems crueller. Her cheekbones cut, her eyebrows quick slashes. Her eyes pierce. Her nostrils flare. Her mouth pinches. Everything about her reeks of displeasure. She takes several purposeful strides before she allows her eyes to begin to dart around. 

Sansa takes a second to look at the rest of her group. Many soldiers. But significantly, The Mountain, her Hand Qyburn, and the man who can only be Euron Greyjoy. They have not heard from Theon and the sight of his Uncle reminds Sansa of the fact. Euron seems to be searching for his nephew as well. 

Then Sansa feels Cersei’s eyes on her own and they meet. In hatred, and then in surprise, and then in mutual appraisal. She wonders what this woman sees in her now. She has to nearly laugh because her outfit is almost similar. It is a leather armored bodice that hugs her tightly, they are both dressed all in black and Cersei’s dress too is armory inspired. (Sansa even thinks that if she were to wear a crown she quite likes the style of Cersei’s, the narrow silver loops of it, but instead of meeting in lions her’s would meet in wolves. Always in wolves).

Cersei’s eyes linger for a few more seconds in burning fury and then she keeps searching. Sansa sees her land on Tyrion for a few tense moments. Sees her look to Jon too and her eyes flash with something. Annoyance? It is too quick for her to know for sure. 

Then her eyes find Jaime, in chains but unharmed, and Sansa can see Cersei restrain herself. She continues to make her way to her seat. 

Sandor Clegane stands up though and makes his way straight to his brother. Who doesn’t even react, Sansa notes. Everyone seems to stop breathing as they watch the encounter. Sandor speaks, loud enough for them all to hear. 

“Remember me? Yeah, you do. You're even fucking uglier than I am now. What did they do to you? Doesn't matter. That's not how it ends for you, [ brother ](https://genius.com/18170540/Game-of-thrones-the-dragon-and-the-wolf/Brother). You know who’s coming for you, you have always known,” Sandor’s words are ominous and he speaks as if he was getting responses from his brother, having to uphold the conversation all himself.

Part of her is sad for that much hatred for your only family, although she knows why. It doesn’t make the sight less horrid. 

Sandor finally walks away and Sansa watches as the Mountain goes to stand in a defensive position behind Cersei.

They are all in their places, all waiting. Everyone except Daenerys. 

“Where is she?” Cersei asks into the booming silence. 

Her voice startles Sansa but she doesn’t react outwardly. It transports her back to King’s Landing. In a flash. She doesn’t like the sensation. She’s glad that Tyrion takes the lead here. 

“She'll be here soon,” Tyrion assures his sister.

Sansa thinks it is amusing how even now they know each other well, how to appease each other and how to press the buttons that make the other tick. Perhaps that never goes away for siblings. (Though she had to learn to know Jon anew, she supposes. They never were siblings, not really).

“She didn't travel with you?” Cersei huffs.

“No,” Tyrion’s answer is curt. 

They dissolve into silence for several more minutes. Cersei speaks again. She always has been impatient. 

“I would like Jaime unchained. That was the deal wasn’t it? My presence here in exchange for his life. Well, I am here, whether or not the Dragon Queen is present is none of my concern,” Cersei says testily. 

When no one speaks she continues. 

“This was your idea, was it not Lady Stark? Kindly unchain my brother before I am forced to do something drastic,” Cersei says and turns her eyes to Sansa.

All the other eyes in the pit follow them. Sansa is momentarily stunned at being addressed as such. Cersei respected her title without question, not even demeaning. It bewilders her. Then she has to absorb the words and parse their meaning. 

“We will unchain Ser Jaime once the meeting is finished and you have heard our proposals. Not a minute before,” Sansa says, more steady than she feels. 

Jon’s eyes are on her but she can’t meet them. She only stares down Cersei, as if in a match to see who can last the longest before giving into absolute feral madness. 

Sansa, to her surprise, wins. Because Cersei says no more on the subject. Though Sansa catches her staring, somewhat longingly, at Jaime and his chains. His eyes find hers as well. And Sansa wonders how nobody saw their blatant adoration for each other for all those years, was it always this plain?

It is then that she hears the approach. Daenerys and Drogon. She settles into her seat, not looking forward to the upcoming display. 

She watches in boredom as Daenerys circles the dragonpit on Drogon’s back and eventually comes to land up on the side. Drogon lets down his tail and she descends gracefully to the ground. Daenerys is in her element today and with this entrance she has ensured that every eye is on her. Sansa looks to Cersei and sees only annoyance though, no intimidation or fear. Annoyance at being kept waiting. (Sansa tends to agree. It is a childish display). Daenerys approaches the seat her advisors left for her and sits.

“We've been here for some time,” Cersei says with a tight sigh.

“My apologies,” Daenerys says without sounding sorry at all. 

Daenerys looks around at those on her side and her eyes, unsurprisingly, find Tyrion. Trusting him to direct them into this dance of devils. So Tyrion stands.

“We are all facing a unique–” Tyrion starts.

Euron Greyjoy cuts him off, “Where is Theon? I have his sister and I know the bloody coward lives somewhere.”

Tyrion just looks bewildered and peers around as if anyone can stop this apparent buffoon of a man. Sansa gives a slight shake of her head, Cersei always chooses the stupidest men, though she knows it is because they are easy to control.

“I think we ought to begin with larger concerns,” Tyrion nearly pleads.

“Then why are you talking? You're the smallest concern here,” Euron mocks him and looks around as if expecting appreciative laughter. When he hears none he shrinks only slightly. 

Instead, someone calls from the entrance of the pit, someone who had walked in while they had all been occupied.

“Poor dwarf jokes that you must explain will get you nowhere here Uncle,” Theon Greyjoy says with a huge smile.

And it doesn’t take Sansa much to figure out why. At Theon’s side stands Yara Greyjoy. Looking a bit worse for wear but very much alive, very much not being held captive by Euron. All around her people are gaping, Sansa included. She exchanges a look of wonder with Jon, but hastily looks away when their eyes meet for too long and she feels herself redden. 

Euron’s face seems torn between outrage and shock and he can’t speak, his mouth keeps opening and closing in a humorous rendition of a puppet. 

“Don’t look so shocked Uncle, surely even a great idiot like yourself should know better than to leave your prisoner with even greater idiots,” Yara says as her and Theon make their way to two empty seats. Neither of them can stop grinning. 

They appear completely at ease but Sansa doesn’t miss the look of cold appraisal Yara gives Daenerys as they find their seats. She has apparently been informed that the Dragon Queen did nothing for her recapture and Sansa just thanks the gods that Yara doesn’t choose today to lay that misstep at the Queen’s feet. 

Euron finally regains his sense of self. 

“Seize them!” He turns to Cersei and says incredulously. His anger reverberating in every word, “Theon has stolen our prisoner, we cannot let this stand!”

Cersei merely looks at him as if she is just realizing what a lunatic this man truly is.

“Perhaps you ought to sit down,” It is Jaime who calls from his chains. His voice is beyond done with the situation and Sansa suspects he has long detested the man. 

“You’re in chains Lannister, I don’t think you have any say here,” Euron scoffs. 

Cersei glances at Jaime when Euron speaks and Sansa can see some silent communication there. The Lannister twins are in obvious agreement. 

“Sit down or leave,” Cersei’s voice leaves no room for question and the Mountain takes a menacing step forward and it forces Euron to stop his campaign. 

With a look of pure disgust he resumes his seat and begins to send angry looks towards his niece and nephew. 

Sansa catches Theon’s eye and gives him a huge smile. She is proud of him, beyond proud, jubilant. She wishes only to embrace him and say as much. 

Tyrion, who still stands, finally gets to the point he had been trying to make.

“We are a group of people who do not like one another, as this recent demonstration has shown. We have suffered at each other's hands. We have lost people we love at each other's hands. If all we wanted was more of the same, there would be no need for this gathering. We are entirely capable of waging war against each other without meeting face-to-face.”

Tyrion has always had a good speaking voice, Sansa thinks, but she sees Cersei is not convinced, not in the slightest. 

“So instead, we should settle our differences and live together in harmony for the rest of our days?” Cersei’s words are disbelieving and her voice is almost a scoff. 

“We all know that will never happen,” Tyrion sighs.

“Then why are we here?” Cersei demands. 

Sansa knows they could be here all day, listening to Cersei and Tyrion have a go at one another. It would amuse them for a while but it wastes the precious time they do have. She gives Jon a pointed look then. It is now or never. And he is their King.

Jon stands and everyone’s eyes follow him as he comes to stand in the centre of their circle. He stares down Cersei directly, a brave feat Sansa thinks. And it does something to her, to see him face down their greatest enemies without flinching. It always has. When he speaks, it is with the burden of knowledge.

“This isn't about living in harmony. It's just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you can't negotiate with. An army that doesn't leave corpses behind on the battlefield. Lord Tyrion tells me a million people live in this city. They're about to become a million more soldiers in the Army of the Dead,” Jon says the last bit with a grave seriousness.

“I imagine for most of them it would be an improvement,” Cersei says with a lilt that boils Sansa’s blood.

“This is serious Cersei. Do you think any of us would be here if it weren’t? Do you think _I_ would be here?” Sansa says scathingly, surprising even herself.

The history between them hangs in the air and it feels as if there is a fire between the two of them. Cersei’s eyes certainly burn at her words. 

“Truth be told I didn’t think you would ever come to this city again,” Cersei says, “ _Willingly._ ”

The implied threat dangles. Sansa doesn’t blink. She sees even Daenerys’ eyes widen at her boldness. Oh, Sansa thinks. _Now_ they all know why she has told them to not underestimate this woman. Now they see. 

“You will not utter threats to the Lady of Winterfell. Not here at a peace meeting, even if you are a Queen,” Jon says with a forced calm and somehow he demands all of the attention in the pit. Sansa is amazed that Cersei stays silent. She seems to be considering Jon with such seriousness, Sansa doesn’t understand it. 

“What Sansa says is true. This is beyond serious,” Jon continues.

Cersei sinks back into her seat as if bored, “I don't think it's serious at all. I think it's another bad joke. If Bronn has informed me correctly, you're asking me for a truce.”

“Yes. That's all,” Daenerys says.

Finally, Sansa thinks. She has watched this all with such interest but let everyone else do the work for her. She is to be Queen, does she not care to convince Cersei of their plan?

Cersei is dubious, “That's all? Pull back my armies and stand down while you go on your monster hunt. Or while you solidify and expand your position. Hard for me to know which it is with my armies pulled back until you return and march on my capital with four times the men.”

“Your capital will be safe until the northern threat is dealt with. You have my word,” Daenerys says and Sansa is impressed by her calm attitude and sincerity in her voice. 

“The word of a would-be usurper,” Cersei rolls her eyes. 

Tyrion intercedes as he sees Daenerys’ eyes flare up and prepare to retaliate, “There is no conversation that will erase the last fifty years. But if you would listen–”

Sansa stands up then. She comes to stand where both Jon and Tyrion still reside. Jon looks at her as if he can’t believe what he is seeing but she ignores him for the moment. This must be done.

“You speak true Cersei. You have no reason to trust any of us. But trust what you know. _I_ , more than anyone, have every reason to stay away from King’s Landing. I would not be here except against my will or out of sheer desperation. You _know_ that. So listen to what we have to tell you, listen and then decide,” Sansa doesn’t beg but she implores. 

Cersei’s eyes widen slightly at Sansa’s words and she feels the rest of the group watch them intently. Sansa steps back and turns to Jon, gives him a nod. He looks a bit awed and it takes him a second to snap to it. 

“We can destroy the dead only by burning them. Or we can destroy them with Dragonglass. If we do not win the fight against the dead then every person here will die. Every person in Westeros will die, and the Night King will take up the Iron Throne. Is that what we truly want?” Jon looks at each person here in turn.

He takes several steps forward and directs his last words to Cersei alone. 

“There is only one war that matters. The Great War. And it is here.”

Sansa can tell that Cersei actually considers the matter. She can tell because she can’t hide her eyes from finding Jaime’s again. He has always been and always will be her final weakness. It is something Sansa thinks she will need to remember in the wars to come. To get to Cersei you have to get to Jaime. Cersei doesn’t speak though, she is still deep in thought. Instead of letting her finish thinking, Daenerys interrupts.

“I didn't believe it until I saw them. And I saw them all,” Daenerys speaks softly, obviously remembering her flight beyond the Wall with Jon.

Jaime perks up and asks as if he doesn’t want to know the answer, “How many?”

“A hundred thousand, at least,” Daenerys says gravely. 

Jaime looks as if he chokes on the air and Cersei looks to Daenerys as well. She is thinking, considering, and in all likelihood, plotting. 

Euron asks from his seat, “Can these dead swim?”

Jon hesitates as if confused, “No.”

Euron stands, “Good. I'm taking the Iron Fleet back to the Iron Islands.”

And to everyone’s shock, he makes to leave.

“What are you talking about?” Cersei asks, suddenly furious.

Euron pauses and looks to them all, “I've been around the world. I've seen everything, things none of you could imagine, and this. This is the only thing I've ever heard of that I have no interest in coming face to face with.”

“You speak as if the Iron Fleet is still yours Uncle,” Yara calls from her seat. 

And Sansa turns to see Yara and Theon looking quite smug. Euron’s face clouds with anger. 

“You’re welcome to take the ten ships that remain loyal to you. But the rest have re-pledged their loyalty to the rightful heirs of the Iron Islands,” Theon says. 

Euron vibrates and he looks furious. And then, inexplicably he ignores them altogether and heads for Daenerys. Everyone around her moves to defend their Queen but Euron stops a respectable distance away. 

“I'm going back to my island. You should go back to yours. When Winter's over, we'll be the only ones left alive,” Euron says, disgustingly. And thankfully makes his exit from them all. 

Sansa thinks they all let out a collective sigh. Daenerys’ eyes follow him out in absolute loathing. Sansa sees her turn to Cersei and for the briefest second the two share a look of understanding. They seem to agree on Euron Greyjoy at least. 

Sansa can see then that Cersei has come to a decision. But she doesn’t like the triumph she sees flickering in the woman’s eyes. 

“He's right to be afraid. And a coward to run. If these dead things you speak of, come for us, there will be no Kingdoms to rule. That much is clear. And everything we suffered will have been for nothing. Everything we lost will have been for nothing,” Cersei pauses and her gaze lingers on Jaime.

Sansa knows how much they both have lost, knows how devastating it would be in Cersei’s mind for it to have been for that, to have been for nothing. But when Cersei’s eyes find Sansa’s again she feels only foreboding. 

“The crown accepts your truce. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy,” Cersei finishes.

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief at her words, everyone relaxes. Daenerys sits back into her chair. Sansa can feel the relief radiating off Jon and Tyrion both. Sansa is the only one who seems to remain on guard. 

Then Cersei smiles slightly.

“In return, the King in the North will extend this truce. He will remain in the North where he belongs. He will not take up arms against the Lannisters. He will not choose sides.”

Sansa’s stomach drops and she knows the dread is not unfounded. To her side Jon has closed his eyes as if bracing himself. 

Daenerys asks in disbelief, “Just the [ King ](https://genius.com/18175614/Game-of-thrones-the-dragon-and-the-wolf/King) and not myself?”

“I would never ask it of you. You would never agree to it. And if you did, I would trust you even less than I do now. I ask it only of Ned Stark's son. I know Ned Stark's [ son ](https://genius.com/18175624/Game-of-thrones-the-dragon-and-the-wolf/Son) will be true to his word,” Cersei says with a smirk.

And Sansa knows that must be the tipping point, because Ned Stark was not honourable, not nearly as much as everyone thinks he was. And Jon Snow is not his son. That is the crux that makes Jon snap. 

“Yet you ask it of me? You think _I_ would agree to it?” Jon narrows his eyes and considers Cersei carefully. 

Cersei cocks her head and raises an eyebrow. 

“I am true to my word. Or I try to be. And that is why I cannot give you what you ask. I cannot serve two women. I cannot vow to remain neutral when I serve the Starks first. When I serve Sansa,” Jon says her name as if in prayer and she doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. 

Cersei appears to be doing the same thing, she is growing incensed by the second. Sansa doesn’t dare to look at anyone else’s reactions but she thinks Daenerys must be burning. 

“Sansa Stark, who will remain your enemy until the end of days. Who even now you threaten boldly for us all to hear. I cannot, in good faith, keep your promise when I have already vowed to protect her until my dying day,” Jon finishes. 

His words are too much and Sansa has to hold back tears. She sees Davos now, his face concerned as if Jon has been too obvious. And oh he has. Even if most of them won’t understand it. Sansa knows. Sansa knows and it will stay with her until _she_ dies. 

Cersei’s eyes go back and forth from Jon to Sansa, considering. They finally land on Sansa and she gives a slight shake of her head, as if she can hardly believe the woman she has become since they last met. Then she stands up. 

Cersei speaks dismissively, “Then there is nothing left to discuss. The dead will come North first. Enjoy dealing with them. We will deal with whatever is left of you.”

Her people make to follow her and she stops in front of Ser Jaime.

“Unchain him,” Cersei commands. 

The Unsullied look to Daenerys who in turn looks to Sansa. Sansa nods and Daenerys gives her a look that she cannot comprehend but she nods to her Unsullied and they untie him.

Jaime and Cersei do not embrace, they actually act coldly to one another. And Cersei breezes away, leaving him to catch up. 

Suddenly Brienne is up and walking with purpose towards him. She catches him quickly and they are close enough for all to hear the exchange, though she suspects Jaime thinks otherwise. 

“Ser Jaime,” Her voice is terse.

“It's been good to see you. I imagine the next time will be across a battlefield,” Jaime says and makes to go. 

“You heard as well as I did what we are up against,” Brienne pleads now. 

Jaime stops, “Yes, and I'm not looking forward to seeing more of them. But I'm loyal to the Queen and you're loyal to Sansa and her dolt of a brother.”

Brienne slaps him on the arm as if she can’t believe his words, “Oh, fuck loyalty! And you know as well as I do that _they_ are the only ones ensuring that we all live!”

“Fuck loyalty?” Jaime looks at her in disbelief and Sansa feels the same way, this is a different and more enlivened Brienne than she has known.

“This goes beyond houses and honor and oaths. Talk to the Queen,” Brienne says with finality and turns back to the group.

Jaime looks to them and then to Cersei’s receding form, “And tell her what?”

Brienne doesn’t turn back and Jaime is left to follow his sister back to the castle. 

Slowly the group breaks up and dissolves into chatter about the events that have just passed. Sansa still feels rooted to the spot when Davos approaches her and Jon, both of whom have yet to speak.

“I wish you hadn't done that,” Davos sighs.

Jon just stares at him, “You honestly want me to give my loyalty to the woman who spent years torturing Sansa?” 

Jon gestures wildly to Sansa and her heart swells even as her mind races to find a solution. 

“I agree with Davos,” Daenerys says and approaches them, “Is it wise to provoke her so when you already know how she feels about Sansa?”

Sansa thinks it is a bit rich for Daenerys to complain about provocation. But she lets it pass.

“I appreciate it Jon,” Sansa says quietly and it makes every head turn her way, “But for once you might have lied.”

Jon pinches his nose in frustration, “I will not lie to that woman. Not about that. I can’t swear an oath to her I won’t uphold. She talks about–talks about Ned Stark. And I know that if enough people talk and tell false promises, it does no good for anybody.”

Everyone seems to understand Jon’s point but it is Sansa to who his total truth hits closest. Jon, on some level, resents Ned’s lies to them, and she can’t blame him.

Tyrion lets out a great sigh, “Yes, lies are indeed a problem. The more immediate problem is that we're fucked.”

“Any ideas as to how we might change that state of affairs?” Davos asks, he can always be depended on to keep them on track.

Tyrion sighs again and stares at each of them, “Only one. Everyone stays here, and I go and talk to my sister.”

“I didn't come all this way to have my Hand murdered,” Daenerys protests immediately and with an undercurrent of outrage. 

“And he won’t be” Sansa says then, “Because I am the one who will be going to speak to Cersei.”

Everyone around her is silenced in their shock but it is Jon who recovers first. 

“Sansa you can’t. She’ll have you killed. It’s my fault–” Jon’s words are swallowed by everyone else’s arguments.

Brienne and Davos first. Tyrion. Even Daenerys herself. But Sansa can only look at Jon through it all. He might never forgive her for this. She closes her eyes for half a second and takes a breath. 

“I am the one who got Cersei to agree in the first place. She knows if she kills me here we will burn the city with her in it,” Sansa looks to Daenerys, who nods surprisingly enough, it seems that in the face of Cersei, their alliance actually has some merit, “I will go.”

Tyrion and Jon both look at her desperately. But in truth, half of Sansa doesn’t want to give Tyrion the opportunity to speak to Cersei alone. The other half of her wants that all for herself, to topple Cersei’s triumphs. Tyrion finally gives a nod. 

Jon stares desperately at her for what feels like forever, all that he hasn’t said is left between them. Finally, hoarsely, he speaks. 

“Brienne goes with you as far as they will allow,” Jon says and relents.

Sansa nods and then turns towards the castle. Takes one step and then another, away from all of them. Away from Jon. Brienne’s following footsteps her only sense of comfort.

* * *

Sansa makes it all the way to the hall leading to Cersei’s chamber without Brienne raising one word of protest. When she finally does, Sansa loves her the most for it. She is loyal, unwaveringly but she won’t hesitate to question her when it is Sansa’s life in the balance. 

“My Lady…” Brienne is wary, “Are you sure you must do this?”

Sansa looks to Brienne, and her heart quivers for a moment. There is a possibility Cersei will have her killed. She thinks it’s slim but she can’t discount it. So it drives her to say what she does.

“If it goes poorly… take care of Arya. And Bran as well,” Sansa says and turns away to proceed alone to the end of the hall. 

It pains her too much to think of being parted from Jon now, so she can’t speak of him to Brienne. 

As she approaches the door, Ser Jaime exits from the other side. The Mountain lurks closely behind. Sansa takes an automatic step backwards. 

Jaime appears to be shaking his head before he realizes she is standing there. 

“Sansa Stark?” Jaime says disbelieving. 

“Yes. Your vision seems intact at least,” Sansa muses, trying to be unbothered. 

Jaime half laughs, “You must have some sort of death wish, even worse than my own. But I can’t believe that your… brother is it?” Jaime grins at that, “Allowed you to come here, really you must have him wrapped quite tightly around you.”

Sansa doesn’t let her mask slip but she is reminded of Jaime’s knowing words back in the tent. How he seemed to look at her and Jon and _see them_. Seemed to really see them, even more clearly than they saw themselves. 

Jaime moves to step around her with an amused expression. 

“Good luck, Lady Stark. You’ll need it knowing my sister. She doesn’t take kindly to many, and especially not to you. But you know that already don’t you?” Jaime gives her a grin, “You really are your mother’s daughter, Catelyn Tully reborn.”

Sansa has loved, and still does take pride in, comparisons to her mother, but something about Jaime unnerves her so she turns around and calls to his back. 

“Unlike my mother however. I intend to outlive all the Lannisters and their wicked schemes,” Sansa says smoothly. 

Jaime halts for a second and looks over his shoulder. 

“And I suspect you will,” He says and then exits from the hall. 

It is not what she was expecting and she finds she doesn’t know Jaime Lannister very well at all. 

When she turns back to the door it is to the Mountain’s huge shadow. She gestures to the door and he turns to let her in. They both step inside.

The Mountain steps aside and Sansa looks to where Cersei sits. The crown is gone, it’s the first thing she notices. And Cersei looks livid. Whatever her conversation with Jaime had entailed it had not endeared her to further guests. But Sansa approaches without hesitation. Cersei’s eyes seem to bulge at her, shocked by her sudden appearance, Sansa is nearly at her seat before she speaks.

“I shouldn’t be surprised. You have more nerve than any of them out there,” Cersei says and it is almost a compliment. 

It’s dangerous. Insidious. As Cersei always is. Sansa pulls back the chair and sits down. She puts her hands in her lap. 

“I didn’t think that burning men alive on the battlefield was really the Stark way. What would your parents think of their Little Dove?” Cersei is taunting now. 

Sansa just breathes. In and out. She won’t be ruled by her emotions here. She can’t afford to. Instead she looks around to steady herself. There is wine and two empty goblets on the table. She knows Cersei loves her wine, so with that in mind she pours them both a drink. And perhaps a bit recklessly, takes a sip. She has never been a big drinker and the wine gives her a bit of a kick. She can do this. 

To her dismay, Cersei merely looks at her goblet with uncertainty and leaves it untouched. 

“I do not approve of her actions, but I won’t deny that we need her for the oncoming wars. Surely you must understand the concept of working with those who you dislike after so many years,” Sansa says.

Cersei straightens up, “Oh surely I understand the concept. What I don’t understand is how you justify bringing her here under the idea of peace when she represents the furthest thing from it.”

Cersei’s words are acidic, and Sansa cannot deny them. She decides to explain instead. 

“Daenerys didn't want to debate and negotiate. She would have rained down fire on the capital. She would have killed you all. It has been something we have tried to prevent from happening,” Sansa says, a hint of desperation in her voice. 

Sansa takes another drink of her wine and Cersei considers her. She feels undressed under her gaze. Cersei seems to be really seeing her for the first time. And in one swift motion it is as if all the anger is snuffed out and replaced by exhaustion. 

“You are not the same girl you once were,” Cersei admits and seems to subconsciously reach for her wine but then stops herself. It doesn’t escape Sansa’s notice.

“Nor do I think you are the same woman,” Sansa says.

And it is true. She thinks Cersei is worse, more cruel and cynical than before and less restrained. But she is still rational, at least if it involves self-preservation. It is practically her only driving motivator at this point. 

“You do not still think I murdered Joffrey, I presume?” Sansa asks. 

It is a risk and she knows it. A risky subject but she thinks it needs to be said. Cersei’s knuckles turn white as she grips her chair. Her nostrils flare and she stares down Sansa something awful. 

“If you wanted me dead, I would be already. The Mountain is here, I am at your mercy,” Sansa comments, more at ease by the moment. 

Cersei explodes, “I have been informed that it was in fact Olenna Tyrell. But that does not expunge you of treachery, dear Sansa. No, I believe I know all about the wicked desires blooming within you, even at this moment.”

Sansa sucks in a breath. Cersei knows. Jaime had told her his suspicions or she had noticed herself. 

Cersei chuckles, “It is plain on your face. You have grown adept at hiding things, but everyone has that which slips out. I suppose we are more alike than I thought. Still, only a half brother. Pity.”

 _Or cousin._ Sansa thinks half in relief. 

“It will end poorly. She loves him too,” Cersei says and continues to stare Sansa down. 

It doesn’t need to be said who she is speaking of. 

“She is a tyrant in the making,” the way her words release in a burst of unbridled honesty surprises her and reminds her too closely of a similar set of words. _He is a monster._

Cersei’s head perks up. 

“Then we are all doomed, dead army or not, the future is out of our hands,” Cersei says bitterly. 

Sansa crosses her arms, “If you think that then why are we here? You let us come in order to get Jaime back but had no intention of ever listening?”

Cersei scrutinizes her, “You bring me proposals that only allow my enemies, namely you and Daenerys, to collaborate in my further destruction.”

And suddenly it becomes clear to Sansa what she must do. The plan that she has been formulating falls into place. She very nearly jumps up in her seat as it dawns on her. She almost checks her shoulder to make sure nobody is around to overhear them. The Mountain surely doesn’t count. 

“Then let _us_ collaborate,” Sansa says and her blue eyes glint and reflect in Cersei’s green ones. 

Cersei appears confused for a second, then it hits her. She lets out a breathy laugh. 

“You and me?” Cersei says disbelieving. 

Sansa has to hold back a grin, “We need not like each other, we don’t even need to respect each other. We only need to understand each other. We understand what Daenerys is, what she will become. Nobody will ever have to know.”

Sansa says the last bit knowing it’s a lie. Jon will have to know, she suspects Jaime will know as well. Or maybe not given the obvious tension between the two Lannister twins. But the rest, the rest she is deadly serious about. 

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Cersei breathes, hardly believing what they seem to be agreeing to. 

And then her hands fall to her stomach and another piece falls into place. Cersei’s refusal of wine, her clear melancholy and quiet reflection. 

“You’re pregnant,” Sansa says it as a fact but she finds herself surprised in the way she knows it to be true.

Cersei’s hand flies from her stomach but the truth is caught in her eyes. She sighs. 

“Too perceptive. You always have been,” Cersei admits. 

“We can’t let Daenerys win the Iron Throne, if we have any hope of protecting those we love most. But first we _must_ fight the Night King. Then the houses of Lannister and Stark will finally stand together again. You have my word,” Sansa speaks urgently. 

Cersei is silent for a long while.

“And after?” Cersei asks finally. 

Sansa’s eyes light up. 

“Afterwards, we do only what is necessary,” Sansa says, which is a non-answer. 

But they both know the truth. As they discuss specifics, it lingers between them. They will never let the past go, they will put it aside. But in the end, one of them will fall. Cersei will not halt her pursuit of Sansa indefinitely, and Sansa won’t take herself off the board.

But for now. For now they can work together, despite knowing what is to come.

* * *

Everyone leaves Jon to mope in his chair. He can think of nothing but Sansa and as the minutes drag on he regrets his decision more and more. So when Daenerys approaches him he is less than thrilled. She draws up a chair beside him and rests a hand on his knee. He has to stop himself from withdrawing. 

“Sansa can handle herself,” Daenerys says, comfortingly.

She has been different today, despite the ostentatious display of power which she started with. She has been an ally to them. Jon thinks it is unfortunate that more and more she shows her unpredictable wrath instead of the potential for good. 

“For what it’s worth. Even if the alliance doesn’t work. I respect what you did for Sansa,” Daenerys tries again. 

Jon just grunts. And then he sighs.

“And if Cersei Lannister kills her now none of it matters anyways,” Jon says. 

Daenerys shakes her head but doesn’t challenge him. She changes the topic instead. She fiddles with a bone Jon hadn’t realized she had been holding. 

“This place was the beginning of the end for my family. A dragon is not a slave. They were terrifying. Extraordinary. They filled people with wonder and awe, and we locked them in here. They wasted away. They grew small. And we grew small as well. We weren't extraordinary without them. We were just like everyone else,” Daenerys speaks as if in mourning. 

He hardly knows what to say to her vulnerability. 

“I wish to show them that we were never like everyone else. Even at our weakest we could triumph. If I have to use my dragons to do that. Then so be it,” Daenerys’ voice takes on a hard edge, “Surely you understand, having rode Rhaegal? The way it makes you soar.”

Jon can’t meet her eye.

“Aye, I understand the need for power. And to bring honour to your family. But what I said before remains true. If you do that through brute force and bloodshed you are like everyone else, just more of the same,” Jon doesn’t think it is unkind but Daenerys doesn’t nod or agree. 

“I can't forget what I saw north of the Wall. And I can't pretend that Cersei won't take back half the country the moment I march North,” Daenerys speaks firmly and Jon cannot believe that even after everything they remain at this impasse. She can’t see past the hunk of metal throne. 

Before he can speak though they hear footsteps. Footsteps of many people, and approaching quickly. They both rise to their feet and come to join the rest of their already assembled group. 

First into their line of sight is Sansa and Cersei. Jon’s shoulders sag with relief and he drinks Sansa in, unharmed and looking confident in her stride. As if she has no more worries, as if all their problems have been solved. Jon wants to reach for her, to hear everything. To never have to be parted from her again. 

As Cersei’s group comes to a stop Sansa does as well. She looks once at Cersei and the pair exchange a nod. Sansa continues on then and comes right to Jon’s side. While everyone else is preoccupied with Cersei and what she will say, Jon feels hot breath at his ear. 

“Trust me.”

Two words. Jon never would have doubted. But the reassurance there, he could drown in Sansa Stark’s trust. 

Jon refocuses but every nerve in his body is lit up and firing too quickly. Cersei is already stepping forward to speak. She looks as displeased as ever, perhaps even more so than she did beforehand. 

“My armies will not stand down. I will not pull them back to the capital. I will march them North to fight alongside you in the Great War. The darkness is coming for us all. We'll face it together. And when the Great War is over, perhaps you'll remember I chose to help with no promises or assurances from any of you,” She pauses and looks at them all in distaste, “I expect not.”

“Call our banners. All of them,” She directs these last words to her generals. 

There is a stunned silence as her words wash over the group. And then, slowly, all of them turn to Sansa, himself included. 

Her face gives away nothing. And yet here they stand, everything they have set out to do accomplished in one afternoon. He can only look at her in wonder, he would not survive if not for her, none of them would. She never ceases to amaze him.

Jon wants to pick her up and spin her around. He settles for gripping her hand for a split second instead. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

* * *

Sansa sits in her cabin and brushes her hair out. Long and steady strokes to soothe her mind, her soul. After Cersei had agreed, after they had made their deal, the rest of them had left quickly. Promises of Cersei’s men meeting them as soon as possible. There had been a brief discussion on how they would travel to Winterfell and then all of them had taken to the ships. Theon and Yara had given them enough ships from the Iron Fleet and Daenerys had her own ships as well. Brienne had gone back to lead the Northern Armies home. 

Sansa is content. She is ready for bed, for the calming waves to lull her to sleep. She has spent little time aboard boats but she feels at ease here, there is water lapping outside her window, both the sea and the sky are black and the moon shimmers down over it all. She unties her boots and takes them off, relishing in the relief it brings her feet. She stands up and folds her cloak over the chair. She undoes her outer bodice, the one that so resembles armor and hangs it with the cloak, too tired to bother putting it away properly. And then she starts to unbutton the top buttons of her dress, but then decides to check and make sure she locked the door. 

She takes several steps towards the door and just as she reaches to check she hears footsteps outside the threshold. She shivers then, because whoever it is has stopped just in front of her door. She strains her ears and hears breathing, as if they are in deep contemplation over what to do next. She stands there, only feet away and the knock comes after a few more seconds of hesitation. 

Sansa takes in a breath, reaches for the knob and turns it (it was unlocked after all, maybe part of her knew). She swings the door inward to reveal Jon.

He looks, well, nervous. Not a look she sees him have frequently. He keeps looking to his feet. And they both just stand there. He looks so young, she thinks, his hair in a loose bun at the nape of his neck. His jaw sharp and the stubble just shadowing his face in the right places. She takes in the broad lines of his shoulders and chest. Sansa is suddenly aware that her hair is loose, tousled and free. That her outer clothes are removed and the top buttons on her dress are undone. Jon is less inhibited as well, no armor, just his long shirt and cloak. He finally meets her eye. 

“Sansa I–” Jon starts but Sansa grabs his hand instead, pulls him inside the room. 

She peeks out into the hall, looks each way once and sees nobody. She shuts the door, locks it. And stands face to face with Jon, one hand still clutched in his. 

They remain like that, for what could be an eternity, Sansa gazes into his eyes and sees everything. Sees their pasts, their present moment, sees their future stretched out in different branching paths, and finds that she doesn’t want to deny anymore, she doesn't want to talk in riddles and never say what she truly means. She is done with all that, now her body aches with one thing. Desire. Desire for Jon. 

She crashes her mouth onto his and sends them backing up into the door. She hears his intake of breath, the surprise there, though she thinks after their months of back and forth he should’ve been better prepared. The kiss is not gentle and yet it still takes him a few seconds to respond. But when he does it is vigorous. 

Teeth and tongues, everywhere as they grab at each other. She wants all of him, she decides, they have earned at least that much. 

As she presses into him their kissing takes on a steady rhythm, their breathing syncing up as she tries to pull herself closer to him. 

She kisses Jon’s jaw, his neck, and down towards his chest. He moans and it ignites something within her. But then he grabs her chin, pulling her eyes up to him. 

“Sansa,” Jon pants, “We need to talk about this.”

The last thing she wants to do so she tries to kiss him again. He pulls back, placing his hands on either shoulder. 

“Are you sure?” Jon asks, “Are you sure you want this?”

And Sansa understands suddenly the hesitation, the need for reassurance. Jon knows her, knows her history. He will not do something without her full permission, and she loves him for it, she really does. And so she throws her arms up around his neck and brings their foreheads together. 

“I want you, Jon,” she sighs, “Don’t doubt that.”

She opens her eyes into his and he gives her the smallest smile. 

“And I you, my love,” Jon says and then covers her lips with his own.

The term,  _ my love _ , she wants to drown in those words but she is suddenly otherwise occupied. Because while their last kiss was desperate and clawing, this is slow and luxurious. She thinks they kiss for hours, still pressed up against the door. But slowly the fever between them climbs and when Sansa hitches a leg up onto Jon’s waist he sucks in a breath. And they break apart briefly again. 

As if they think as one she throws her other leg up as well and Jon picks her up, holding her to him, around his waist. 

And then he looks down and they both realize that a few more of her buttons have come undone, her ample breasts milky white but for the subtle scars that lace her body, spill out of her dress, her under clothes peeking out as well. 

Jon stares for several seconds and she almost feels self conscious until he lays kisses all over them. Starting on her collar bones, making a giggle escape her lips and down both her breasts, into the crevice between them. She throws her head back in the sensation of pleasure it evokes and Jon walks them both over to the bed, Sansa’s legs still wrapped firmly around him. His hands planted firmly on her butt, she thinks he quite likes them there. 

He lays her down on the bed, her legs hang down over the side, Jon stands between them and hovers over her. He looks at her as if she is the only one in the world. 

“You are startlingly beautiful, you never fail to amaze me, Sansa,” Jon says. 

And then he kisses her, fiercely this time, with reinvigorated passion. 

Soon he is on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, as they continue to explore each other. Her hands glide over the planes of his chest and back as his shirt comes off. His hands grip at her hips, at her breasts, as her dress comes loose and pools behind her. She finds solidity in his shoulders, in the calluses of his hands. 

And as they move, she feels his growing arousal, pressed between them and she finds it excites her as well, a dampness spreading between her own legs. 

When Jon undoes her small clothes and takes one breast in hand, the other in his mouth, she lets out a needy whine of pleasure. He sucks and flicks his tongue over her hard nipple and she arches her back up into him searching for release. 

“Jon, Jon, I–” She begs. 

“Shh,” Jon urges and removes his mouth from her breast, “Let me take care of you.”

And then he is sliding her skirts down and away, she suddenly feels very exposed, her whole body is on display. But Jon’s eyes show only love, no sign that he sees her as anything less than perfect. He slides her up the bed so she can recline on the pillows comfortably. He presses kisses down her stomach and then he hesitates at her mound.

He looks up to her and in his eyes she can only know that she trusts him, implicitly. His eyes ask a question, and she is unsure what it is but she nods anyways. 

And then she is in bliss. Jon’s mouth covers her, his tongue licking, hot and needy over her opening and around. Her back arches again at the newness of the sensation. It is better than any pleasure she has ever brought herself. And Jon is constant in his attentions, it threatens to overwhelm her, she glances down and his eyes find hers. 

“Jon, please,” Sansa moans, “I need you.”

Jon’s answer to that is to slide a hand up to join his hot and breathy mouth. Before she realizes what is happening he is sliding his fingers up inside her. And she is writhing now, bucking her hips into his hand. She doesn’t care if the whole ship hears her, she wants them to know how she loves Jon Snow. 

Jon continues to work her, she is soaked, she can feel it. And he doesn’t stop until she is begging his name, chanting just  _ Jon _ over and over. Her hand twists into his hair as he continues to lap at her slit and the juices that expel from her arousal. And then everything is white as she reaches her peak. There is only her body and Jon’s mouth, his fingers still curling deep inside her as she collapses back onto the mattress. 

She takes several moments to catch her breath and Jon curls up to lay beside her. Stupidly her first thought is that he still has his trousers on, it seems unjust. 

“Jon,” Sansa’s voice comes out in between pants, “Jon I want–”

“We don’t have to do anything else tonight, Sansa, nothing else,” Jon says and strokes her hair, lays a kiss on her forehead. 

But Sansa looks to Jon’s trousers, at the arousal she still sees protruding there, and decides that it will not do, not for the man she loves so dearly. 

So she kisses him hard and pulls him back on top of her. He is surprised by her need, by her sudden demanding behaviour but he doesn’t try to stop her, he seems to sense that she is in control here. 

She kisses him for a few more seconds, trying to tell him how much she wants this, how much she wants him. And when he doesn’t react she grabs at his pants. Starts unlacing them. He breaks away from her. 

“Sansa,” He says, hesitating. 

“Jon, it’s okay. I want this too,” Sansa whispers and kisses him again, continuing to work on his pants. 

Jon seems to give up on trying to protect her honour or whatever his hold up had been because then he breathes into her neck. 

“I do too Sansa, I do too.”

Jon kicks his pants the rest of the way off and Sansa opens her eyes to take in his naked form. He has always been beautiful, but here he is blinding. She pulls him down to her face and kisses him again. She reaches her hand down and takes him in hand. He is thick, solid, and she finds the knowledge excites her. Even now she imagines him filling her. She strokes experimentally up and down and Jon stops kissing her, hovering just above her as he lets out tiny moans of pleasure. She feels herself growing wet again, dripping for him as she looks into his face lined with bare need. Desire for the things she does to him.

“Sansa,” he begs as she moves her hand faster.

Sansa releases him and repositions herself, she is slick, anticipatory. 

“Jon,” She says desperately.

And he seems to know. Because slowly, so slowly, he positions himself. His hardness pushing against her opening, easing her open bit by bit. She lets out a whimper at the sudden pressure but she puts her arms on Jon’s back, pulling him closer to her. And then he is inside her, for one moment they just stay like that, connected, finally. And then Jon moves. 

His thrusts seems to match the swaying of the ship and Sansa gives herself over to the pleasure as Jon ruts harder, faster and continues to kiss her. He grabs at her breast again, sucks it for a few seconds causing her to gasp and rake her hands down his back, she thinks she must draw blood. 

And then as his speed picks up, both of them are panting needily now as the pace increases. He suddenly flips them over and Sansa is on top, Jon laying back on the bed. She is momentarily stunned by their change in position but with Jon still inside her she knows what to do. She places one hand on Jon’s shoulder, keeping him in place, and she starts to move up and down. 

Jon looks up at her in awe and one hand reaches to her breast, tweaking at her nipple and marvelling at the fullness of her. 

The way they move in tandem makes her clench and she feels indescribable. She throws her head back as she revels in it. Beneath her she hears Jon’s laboured gasps getting quicker, feels his hips start to ram up into hers. 

Sansa bends down over him, her hair falling around both of them and she brings her breasts flush against Jon. She places a hand on his cheek and their last erratic movements send them both crashing over the edge into a blissful oblivion. Jon groans and Sansa collapses against him, tension flooding from both of their bodies in one final release. 

It could be minutes or hours, or days, that they lay there. Sansa still on top of him. They bask in their pleasure, in each other. As the realization of what they are now washes over them. The ship rocks them and lulls them into a false sense of security she thinks, when they are anything but done fighting. 

Eventually she removes herself from Jon. In silence they go to Sansa’s now lukewarm bath and wash each other, gently and with care, a new found softness in their movements. Sansa grabs herself a robe and Jon puts his shirt back on. She takes his hand and draws him back to her bed. 

They crawl in, and slip beneath the covers. Jon holds her and she presses herself into him, resting her head on his chest and just enjoying the sudden peace that has come over her in the wake of all the longing she has pushed down for so long. Jon eventually speaks. 

“We are in so much danger now, our enemies,” Jon whispers into her hair. 

_ We have so many enemies now.  _ It is what he told her on the ramparts, so much has changed since then. They have changed. 

“Our enemies will wait. Cersei Lannister, Daenerys Targaryen. We have each other now, we will protect that, as we do,” Sansa says and nuzzles closer to Jon, finding safety between his arms. 

“I love you Sansa,” Jon says after a while and the words come out choked, “You are everything to me.”

The words don’t surprise her, she would be a fool to not see it. Luckily for both of them she feels the same way, maybe she always has. And maybe they were always meant to come together like this, even when it could’ve been wrong, even when it inevitably puts them both at risk. She snakes her other arm around him and squeezes him to her. 

“I love you too Jon,” Sansa says, “I couldn’t do any of this without you.”

The relief she feels when she says it is unparalleled. To finally admit it, to love and to be loved in return. It is all she has wanted for so long. 

Eventually the ship allows them to drift into dreamless sleeps. For one night they don’t need to worry about the Lannister schemes, or armies of the undead, or even fire breathing dragons. For one night they are only Jon and Sansa, in love and in each other’s arms, out of harm’s way and tucked away from the rest of the world’s prying eyes. 

* * *

Arya fiddles with a dagger. Twirling it over and over in her hand. Sparks fly up into the cold Winter air. Even within Winterfell’s walls they are not immune. They are not safe, not from the cold. Not from their enemies. Arya suspects they draw ever closer, even now. 

Ghost comes to nuzzle at her feet and she strokes her free hand through his hair. He has been a comfort, she can’t deny it. When she returned to find both Jon and Sansa gone she had nearly wanted to turn and leave again. Hearing that they went to negotiate with a Targaryen Dragon Queen whose Hand is the third Lannister sibling… it had been enough to send her running. 

Only Bran had given her pause. He has changed. She sees that every day. He is sharper, quicker, more intense. But he is still her brother. She worries for him, the burdens she sees he carries, but then he makes a joke, or does something slightly absurd and reckless (like making a fool of one of the Lords who dared to question Jon and Sansa’s loyalties to the North in their prolonged absence as rumours begin to swirl across the continent) and she sees the boy she knew in these halls. 

And she watches him now. Quiet and contemplative, he often is nowadays, but he had insisted she join him tonight. She isn’t sure why, she isn’t sure of many things anymore but who is she to deny him? It seems that all his siblings have a stake in what Arya does, since her return to Winterfell she feels trapped, of a sort, at every turn they tell her what to do. A far cry from her wild and reckless ways, killing the Freys was apparently to be her last act of freedom for a while. Between Bran forbidding her from riding South with the armies and then Jon and Sansa’s letter urging her to stay put. It all kept her in Winterfell’s walls. And she complains loudly and at length about it at every opportunity. (But secretly she finds that she doesn’t mind being cared for, it has been so long. And they only mean to protect, as packs are prone to do).

Bran has told her what he can, about becoming the Three Eyed Raven, about how all of them have a purpose in the wars to come. About how important it is for all four of them to work together, uniting in a common purpose. She understands. Even when the hard truths threaten to shatter her icy exterior. (Sometimes she knows it would be easier to slip into someone else’s skin and disappear, maybe she will again one day. But not now).

Hard truths. Like Jon’s parentage. Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. It changes nothing, and yet it changes everything. Still a bastard. But not the way they had thought. A Targaryen yes, but still a Stark. More Northern than any of them. Arya, when she had recovered from the information, had asked how Sansa had taken it, how she had reacted to the news. More for Jon’s sake than Sansa’s. But Bran had grown evasive and secretive. It seems he dislikes talking about Sansa, not Sansa herself, just about the person she is now, the person she has become. 

Arya tries to picture it, she has heard all the stories now. How Jon Snow and Sansa Stark _saved_ the North. How they ousted the Bolton’s and reclaimed these sacred halls for their family. How she stood by his side and rejoiced in the people crowning him King in the North. It is not the Sansa she knows. Not the one who was least close to Jon Snow growing up, who while not malicious, saw him as apart and separate. In ways her siblings never did. Again, when she broaches the subject Bran only evades. 

But he tells her that Sansa is changed, Sansa is not the girl they once knew. (And Arya has heard those stories as well. What Littlefinger and Ramsay and all the rest have done to her. It makes Arya’s skin crawl, makes her wish they were alive only so she could cross them off her list and make them pay for ever touching a hair on her sister’s head. Because even now, even with years between them she would fight and die for Sansa, this she knows in her heart).

Arya is pulled back to the present by three slow knocks on the door. Instead of whirling with her sword and dagger, she takes a deep breath. Bran answers.

“Come in,” He says lowly. 

The door opens slowly and a kind looking, if not slightly bumbling, man stands in their wake. It looks like he has travelled all through the night, through the oncoming snow to reach them and he remains in the threshold, taking both of them in. 

“Samwell Tarly,” Bran says knowingly, and Arya recognizes the name from Bran’s stories. 

He takes a step into the room and shuts the door behind him.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me,” Sam says, and he sounds a bit prideful at the fact, “And this must be…”

“Arya Stark, my youngest sister,” Bran says, “Alive and well, despite a flurry of reports to the contrary.”

And there it is Bran’s humour, just peaking through. Arya inclines her head to Sam with an appraising gaze. 

He bows his head, “Jon has told me stories. My Lady. A pleasure.”

Arya’s cheeks colour and she smiles at him, lets him know he can be at ease here.

“And Bran has told me stories of you, Samwell Tarly. It appears our family owes you quite the debt,” Arya says.

Sam’s cheeks flush now. And he tries to protest. 

“Oh no, that’s nothing really–”

“I remember everything Sam. You helped us get beyond the Wall. You’re a good man. And your actions have changed things more than you can know. Thank you,” Bran says with a hint of a smile. 

Sam shuffles further into the room, “Well thank you, but I am not sure that I am. What happened to you beyond the Wall?”

He asks the question with hesitance, as if he isn’t sure he is ready to know as he slowly takes in the changes Bran has undergone. 

“I became the Three Eyed Raven,” Bran says simply, infuriatingly. 

“Oh…” Sam trails off and looks to Arya for help. She merely gives a slight shrug. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Sam admits, with slight embarrassment. 

Arya nods, join the club, she thinks to herself. She has had weeks to grow accustomed to it but it is still bizarre.

Bran’s honesty surprises her though and she suddenly suspects that he knew Sam was coming tonight. 

“I can see things that happened in the past, see things happening now, yet to come,” Sam seems to grasp some further understanding, “Why did you come to Winterfell?”

Bran’s inquiry seems innocent enough but Arya sees something in his eyes that tells her otherwise, Bran is searching, for what, she isn’t sure. But her brother wants information that he doesn’t have, that he might not even know what it is he searches for. 

“Um well,” Sam seems unsure suddenly, “Jon’s the one to lead the fight against the dead, I know he is. But he can’t do it alone, So I’ve come here to help him.”

Bran nods sagely, but it chills Arya. She doesn’t like the idea of the Army of the Dead, or the Night King, or any of it for that matter. It’s unnatural, but also seemingly inevitable. 

“He’s on his way back to Winterfell. With Daenerys Targaryen, and my sister, Sansa Stark,” Bran says and the way he emphasizes their names… it gives Arya pause. 

There is something there, something that Bran holds back, what it is she doesn’t know but she intends to find out. 

“They need to know the truth,” Bran continues.

And this sends Arya reeling. Bran cannot just give out information as she pleases. She stands up in protest. 

She nearly yells, “Bran you can’t!”

At the same time that Samwell Tarly asks, “The truth about what?”

“It’s okay Arya. I promise,” Bran looks at her and she slowly resumes her seat, “I would never do anything to harm our family. I promise.”

Arya takes in a deep breath, she supposes that Jon’s dearest friend is okay, but what does Bran mean about ‘they’?

Bran turns back to Sam who waits, confusion knitted between his brows. 

“About himself. Nobody knows. No one but us. The Starks. Jon and Sansa. Arya and myself.”

Bran looks at Arya one last time as if to check that they are in agreement, they aren’t fully but she nods anyways, watching Sam for any sign of treachery. She finds none, only curiosity. 

“Jon isn’t really my father’s son, he is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and my Aunt Lyanna Stark. He was born in a tower in Dorne. His last name isn’t really Snow. It’s Sand,” Bran says. 

The words land, and while they’re not new to Arya, she watches Sam absorb the information. Confusion, then something more, some revelation as he stands up slowly. 

“He’s not,” Sam says, as if he has had a brilliant idea but he doesn’t speak sense. 

Bran’s eyes follow him but not his line of thought, “Dornish bastards are named Sand.”

Sam shakes his head vigorously and Arya watches him with deep rooted interest. 

“At the citadel, I transcribed a High Septon’s diary. He annulled Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia and he wed Rhaegar and Lyanna in a secret ceremony,” Sam says.

And it is his turn to surprise them. She sees Bran’s eyebrows shoot up, it appears there are some things that even he doesn’t see. (And seven hells, it seems that Rhaegar never gave two damns about Elia Martell. Arya pities the woman, even when her Aunt married the man). But then Arya realizes. She realizes just _what_ it would mean. And it is like a brick drops into her stomach.

“Are you certain?” Bran’s voice is a whisper but cuts as sharp as a blade. 

“It’s what the High Septon wrote in his private diary, I don’t see why he would lie. Is this something you can see,” Sam speaks in a feverish rush and sits back down again, as if he can’t bear the weight of what they have uncovered. 

Arya and Bran exchange a wary look, one fraught with the potential implications. But Arya can’t fight the lump in her throat to voice them aloud. Bran closes his eyes then and she knows he is searching. 

Her and Sam sit in silence for several seconds, he fidgets while she pumps ice through her veins, freezing her in place slowly. When Bran opens his eyes and speaks again it is as if he is very far away. The words come out quickly, overlapping each other, as if he can’t believe he speaks them himself. 

“Robert’s Rebellion, was it built on a lie? Did they love each other, or did he marry her against her will? I suppose we’ll never know. But if he loved her… if she loved him. A Targaryen and a Stark…” Bran trails off, lost in a haze, “It will all come to pass again, history repeats, everything I have seen before, it spirals back, even now.”

The last words are muddled, they are meaningless in the moment to Arya, she is too focused on what Bran is saying, on processing the words. 

“And Jon. Jon’s real name is Aegon Targaryen,” Bran breathes out and he meets Arya’s eyes. 

She finally finds her voice, “He’s not a bastard, he never has been. He’s the heir to the Iron Throne… ”

The words lodge in her throat, the danger of them. (Daenerys Targaryen thinks she is the last living Targaryen, but if Jon’s claim overthrows her own…) What will that mean for them going forward? What does it mean for Jon? Bran gives her a grim nod and then opens his mouth again. 

“He needs to know. They all need to know.”

* * *

_“Journeys end in lovers meeting/Every wise man’s son doth know”_

William Shakespeare, _Twelfth Night_ , Act II Scene III

**end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are quite a few things I want to say. 
> 
> First to thank you all, the feedback and response to this fic has been absolutely incredible. I cannot thank everyone who has commented, or given kudos enough or give you all enough love. You make it all worth it!
> 
> Secondly. I already KNOW yall are going to be asking for a sequel. I honestly cannot promise anything as I never thought of this fic outside of the realms of a season 7 AU...however I have definitely set things up nicely to continue this into a season 8 divergence as well. So I won't say never but I won't promise something I'm unsure about haha. (If it does happen it'll take me by surprise as is the usual for my writing). 
> 
> Third, this fic is something I personally have wanted to see explored in Jonsa fic for so long. I always thought the idea of Sansa going with Jon would be so interesting so if anyone knows of anything with a similar premise feel free to send it my way as I will definitely check it out!
> 
> Lastly, just a note on the title of the fic. "Run away with my love" is a lyric from the "Wherever you will go" cover by Charlene Soraia and this fic drew heavy inspiration from that song. I knew the title of this fic before I had written one word so I definitely recommend giving it a listen!
> 
> As always, I look forward to your comments, short or long I love them all. And until next time! All the love.


End file.
